


TESTAMENT

by Mayflower (wkl9684), wkl9684



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Deconstruction, First Contact, Gen, Genocide, Hard Science Fiction, Historical References, International Relations, Military Science Fiction, Muggle Technology, Plot, Plot Twists, Political Thriller, Politics, Realistic, Religious Content, Science Fiction, Techno-Thriller, Technology, Weapons of Mass Destruction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:47:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21542470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wkl9684/pseuds/Mayflower, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wkl9684/pseuds/wkl9684
Summary: Are aliens real? Maybe not, but witch-magic certainly is. The world is turned upside down upon the revelation that practitioners of magic have been lurking in the shadow of humanity for centuries. The Wizarding World is threatened by the only unipolar hegemon at the tail end of the Cold War, the North Atlantic Treaty Organization. Legends and prophesies clash with science and philosophies. Magic and myth collide with technology and truth. Ancient hatreds are revived; dark magical practices find mirrors in war and genocide.A CIA officer and MI-6 analyst procure an unlikely combination of people into a task force to investigate the new world.Amidst the riots, cutthroat political games, military aggression, magical shootouts, and hostage crises, a determined philosopher seeks to accomplish his nefarious aspirations by merging quantum physics with the Dark Arts.This is a techno-thriller set in the Harry Potter universe that rewrites some of the canon and most, if not all, of the overarching plot.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18





	1. Prologue

The war left Europe in ruins.

It tore a gash across the continent: from the tyrant waves of the Atlantic and the English Channel to the merchant seas of the Mediterranean; from the rubblized streets of London to the cold beaches of Dunkerque; from the rattled coastline of Normandy — the late chancellor’s “Atlantic Wall” — through Paris, to the silent barricades of the Maginot Line; from the hell-burned city of Dresden to the ghostly, ruined villages that haunt Warsaw; from the dead shores of Sicily, to the wasted coast of Greece. The fracture spread all the way from Prague to Sarajevo and Kosovo. A wound in the earth was opened in the center of Berlin, sucking almost everything in and leaving nothing but dust and rubble. Leaving bodies in the streets, and buildings burned down, and in the heart of the fracture, the cracked and war-torn remains of the Reichstag.

It was here that the world was split in half. On the west side of the border, just meters of the Reichstag, rested the pyramidion balance of justice and liberty. To the east lurked untold horrors — a scourge burned from the frozen city of Stalingrad to the raped city’s capitol. Everything was spoiled. In the same way the Wehrmacht ravaged Europe with their brutal occupations and exterminations, the Soviets pillaged every square inch of Berlin: its townhouses, its schools, its stores, its pride — what sorrowful little remained of German pride — and its girls.

They starved.

The Soviets would do unto Berlin what it had dealt the Ukraine in 1932, who gave birth to a word that has no English counterpart, a word that refers to universal, artificial suffering — a word that means, simply, _to kill by starvation_. Perhaps the Germans considered it retributive justice for the transgressions of the Nazi Empire, but they would have been wrong: this was just another day for the Soviet Union. After all, war crimes make up for an integral tenet of the Soviet identity.

The Western Allies had two options: They could sit by and watch Berlin fall not once but twice to the Soviets, or they could do something.

George Marshall elected to act. The American Secretary of State put forward a plan that forever changed the world order. It was a mission to help collaboratively redevelop Europe — rebuild the economies, rebuild the countries, and re-establish the peoples’ sovereignty. It was the first step forward from a world gone to Hell. It was the first chance for everyone, together, to pick up the pieces.

Naturally, the Soviets did not go along with the European Recovery Program, later known as the Marshall Plan. They refused to take part in it and forbade their eastern European satellites to receive aid of any sort.

There was a dilemma to be had. Berlin was soon to be split right down the middle. The Soviets had claimed territory all across Germany, and where that line ended was just meters away from the Reichstag, and only ten years away from being enforced by a wall that ran the length of the country and sealed half its population to their fates under Soviet control. The message was clear: _You will not touch Berlin_. Yet at the same time, the Western Allies had claimed the western states of Germany and many parts of Berlin were under western control.

The Soviet Union, it seemed, was in dire need of an enemy; the Western European countries, similarly, were in dire need of allies — to form a shield against the iron curtain.

Five representatives met in Brussels to sign a treaty. An expansion of the Treaty of Dunkirk, it bound Great Britain, France, Belgium, the Netherlands, and Luxembourg to a military doctrine of collective defense — the first of many military alliances of the coming Cold War. In the event of Eastern European aggression — Soviet aggression — should any one of those countries see an invasion, they would all declare war to defend their allies. This was a force multiplier. It made these countries safer; it deterred the Soviets from encroaching on their territories in the same way the Nazis did.

The United Nations charter was a step in the right direction for the whole world, but it came at a cost to the West. The Soviet Union held a permanent seat on the Security Council, which meant veto power. It was a conflict of interest. There needed to be an organization associated with the U.N. but segregated from the conflicting interests of the Soviet Union. A new alliance was needed to protect the interests of all whom the Soviets threatened.

On April 4th, 1949, the wheels of history turned again. This time the cogs twisted and slaved away within the Oval Office. It was chilly and dull, yet nerves were as tense as tightrope. The men were about to make history right then and there, in the beating heart of American hegemony, overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue. In the office of President Truman, twelve men representing twenty-nine countries came to sign the Washington Treaty, better known as the North Atlantic Treaty. It had several articles, but the most important doctrine was detailed in Article 5:

Collective Defense. It was as clear and as brazen as the white compass rose embroidered on the flag, with the Navy-blue backdrop contrasting it.

War with any NATO-aligned country meant war with all NATO-aligned countries. Should the Soviets have challenged any one nation in a direct conflict, they would have to challenge them all — and until the Warsaw Pact, this proved very effective at deterring them from trying much of anything. The stage was set for the Cold War. The West had the advantage.

Ultimately, war never broke out between the U.S. and the Soviet Union. The ironic threat of nuclear devastation protected the world from its own destruction. Instead, the United States simply outcompeted the USSR. They out-spent them and wasted the Soviet economy as it tried to keep up.

The 1990s saw the tail end of the Cold War with the decline and eventual dissolution of the USSR and, with it, the Warsaw Pact. NATO had no more enemies, no more foes to stand up to; no more stated reason to exist. The Western world entered a new era of the Long Peace, enjoying the quiet “after,” a long stride for a better tomorrow.

The North Atlantic Treaty Organization was now the sole dominant power of a unipolar world; until the turn of the century, it enjoyed a quiet and comfortable sovereignty. It didn’t take long for that to come to an end, too. A new conflict was waiting on the edge of the 90s, just looming under the ground that humanity stood on. It was an ancient hatred, left underground for millennia, only now festering to the top.

——

August 14, 1992

RAF Waddington, Lincolnshire

14:31

It was like any other afternoon in the ISTAR Operation Evaluation Center. The radar picked up very little out of the ordinary and the chatter was quiet. The skies were clear and watercolor-blue. No patrols were scheduled outbound from Waddington’s runways for two hours. There was no word from Heathrow’s controllers and very little communications from Brize Norton, Coningsby, and Marham. Then, suddenly, the radar picked up an anomalous signal.

Wing Commander Atkinson turned his head as Pilot Officer Greene spoke up from the radar terminal. “Sir, I’ve got something on my scopes.”

“What is it?” Atkinson said.

“New radar contact, bearing two-three-zero. Coming out of Surrey. Heading north, bearing ten.”

“Surrey?” Atkinson asked. “There’s no airport there. What’s its speed? Altitude?”

“Four hundred knots,” Greene said. “Altitude is… twelve thousand feet.”

Atkinson got up and walked over to the console, peeking over Greene’s shoulder. “That can’t be right,” he whispered. The radar screen was cluttered, covered in the usual air traffic on a usual Wednesday over England: mostly civilian, some RAF, some USAF out of Alconbury. Greene pointed to one crossing directly north towards the Scottish border, some six hundred miles southwest of the Waddington radar array. “Why are there no markings on it?”

“No squawk,” Greene said. “It doesn’t appear to have a transponder. At least, not one that responds to our code.”

“Mr. Frey,” Atkinson said slowly, “contact Heathrow and Alconbury. See if they’re picking up the same thing we are.”

“Yes, sir,” Frey said and plugged in a new channel to his board. After a series of one-sided conversations, he put down his headset and turned to Atkinson. “They’ve got it, but Heathrow hasn’t launched any planes on that route and Alconbury is about to go to REDCON Three.”

“We should, too,” Atkinson said. “Contact Trimingham. Report what we found and request a QRA for intercept.”

The second-in-command, Squadron Leader Wilkesboro, looked up from the documents scattered around the main table. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “They might not make it in time,” he said.

“I think you’re right,” Atkinson said. “If the contact is a stealth fighter, it could disappear from our scopes at any time. Send up the AWACS. We need more eyes localized over that route.”

“Yes, sir,” Wilkesboro said. He hesitated, though. Atkinson knew that look.

“... What is it?”

“We’ve got Harriers,” Wilkesboro said. “I’ve seen the boys get ready in ten minutes.”

“They’d be going up with no support,” Atkinson said.

“Neither would the alert fighters from Trimingham,” Wilkesboro said. “But ours will get there sooner.”

Atkinson sighed, thinking about it for a moment. He didn’t want to admit that Wilkesboro was right. He didn’t want to put his fighters at risk, but if this was a prelude to an attack… “Squadron up,” he finally said. “Number Thirteen. Intercept the contact.”

——

RAF Waddington, Lincolnshire

14:45

Two AV-8Bs from the No. 13 Squadron launched from Runway 02, heading north. Pilot Officer John “Cheese” Raleigh retracted the landing gear as the tower removed No. 13’s altitude restrictions.

Mimic’s Harrier made it to Raleigh’s starboard side, flying in formation with him.

“Whiskey Romeo, this is Alpha Foxtrot Echo One-Eight-Niner. Requesting tasking, over,” Raleigh said. Some chatter and feedback played through before he got a response.

“This is Whiskey Romeo, Alpha Foxtrot Echo One-Eight-Niner, tasking as follows. You are now under my control. Head to bearing three-five-zero, speed six-zero-zero, angels two zero. Intercept in approximately ten minutes, over.”

“Roger,” Raleigh said. “Three-five-zero, six-zero-zero, angels two zero. Thank you, Control.”

“Be advised,” the combat controller said. “Two Eagles from Alconbury are already headed there. The squadron name is ‘Gorgon.’” The controller gave him the frequency that the Americans were using. “They’re going to make it two minutes earlier than you, over.”

“And the QRA?” Raleigh asked.

“Three Tornados. ‘November Five-Seven.’ They’ll make the intercept in eighteen minutes.”

“Roger,” Raleigh said. “We’ll fill them in.”

“ROE is strict; do not engage until fired upon,” the controller said. “Try to get them to follow you and land at Waddington. Out.”

On the No. 13 channel, Mimic said, “They just might miss the show.”

Raleigh corrected his course and headed for the intercept point. Mimic followed shortly behind.

After a few minutes, Gorgon should have made contact.

“Gorgon Squadron,” Raleigh said after switching to the American frequency, “this is November Thirteen out of Waddington. We’re to make the intercept in approximately three minutes.”

A voice as chilly as ice responded. He sounded like he was straight out of _Top Gun._ “Copy that, November Thirteen. We’ve made contact with the UFO, but overshot it. Didn’t get good eyes-on. Coming back around.”

_UFO?_

“The Yanks are fucking cowboys,” Raleigh said under his breath. “Roger that, Gorgon. Do you have anything to go off of?”

“Uhh, negative,” Gorgon’s squadron leader answered. “I don’t think I recognize the plane. Doesn’t look like a MiG or a Flanker… or, really, like a plane.”

“Copy that,” Raleigh said. “We’re two minutes out. Try to get a better look, yeah?”

“Affirm,” Gorgon said. “See you at the intercept.”

Even thirty miles away, he could see the commotion. Two contrails were circling around a small silhouette from higher altitude like hawks circling prey. The Eagles danced over the English countryside like they owned the place.

“Eyes on,” Raleigh said. “Descend to angels one-five,” he said as he made his Harrier dive. Mimic followed closely behind. “Match heading, match speed, get eyes on.”

They closed in on the bogey. When they joined its formation, so to speak, Raleigh noticed a few of his instruments flicker. “Minor interference,” he reported.

“I’ve got the same,” Mimic said. “Still operational?”

“Aye. Proceed,” Raleigh said. He spoke on an open, unencrypted frequency. “This is November Thirteen of the Royal Air Force. Unidentified aircraft, you do not have authority to fly in this airspace. Identify yourself and turn back, or you will be fired upon.”

No response. Raleigh repeated himself.

Still nothing.

“Gorgon Squadron,” Raleigh said, “how copy?”

“Solid copy,” Gorgon said. The Eagles swooped down, joining his bracket. “Any update?”

“Negative. Contact won’t answer my hails. On my authority, MASTER ARM on. Repeat, MASTER ARM on. Weapons hold. Close in and identify.”

“Roger,” Gorgon said. “Gorgon Squadron, MASTER ARM on, weapons holding.”

Raleigh armed his weapons and hovered his finger over the trigger. The holographic heads-up display briefly notified him in green letters: MASTERSAFE: OFF. He closed in on the silhouette, which seemed rather small for an aircraft moving at its speed.

“Be advised,” Mimic said, “bogey will be approaching Carlisle municipal area in two minutes.”

Raleigh swore under his breath. Once his plane caught up to the bogey, he saw something awfully peculiar. It wasn’t a plane at all — in fact, it wasn’t any kind of strange, otherworldly object, either. It was a sedan. A cyan Ford Anglia was flying ahead of a formation of AV-8B Harrier IIs and F-15C Eagles — and soon, Raleigh suspected, the Tornado F.2s.

“November Thirteen, this is Gorgon… what the _fuck_ am I looking at?”

With a giggle to himself and a tone of utter disbelief, Raleigh replied: “I believe that is what you would call a flying car.”

He assessed the crew. Just two, a pilot and a copilot — or, rather, a driver and a passenger. Beyond that, there were no details he could see.

“I guess that would explain them having no squawk,” Raleigh said with a chuckle.

“I can’t believe what I’m seeing,” Mimic said. “You’re all seeing this, too, right?”

“Affirm,” Gorgon said.

“All squadrons, urgent, urgent,” a voice called on their frequency. “This is AWACS Red Eye. Do not engage. Weapons safe. New intel came in on Russian observed posts, troop movements, and missile silos. No activity. We have no reason to believe the bogey represents a first strike scenario, break.

“We’ve also called off the QRA,” Red Eye continued. “November Five-Seven’s status is RTB; the situation is in your hands. Over.”

“We can see that, Red Eye,” Raleigh said. “Nice of you to join the fold.”

“Nice to be up in the sky,” Red Eye said. “You are now under my control. Authorization code one-one-Echo-one. Read back and comply.”

“Roger,” Raleigh said. “Authorization accepted. We’re under your control, over.”

Gorgon replied in tune.

“November Thirteen, we are bogey dope. No further intel on the UFO. Do you have visual?”

“November Thirteen has visual,” Raleigh said. “Bogey appears to be a flying car. Method of propulsion is unknown. Flight appears to be highly unstable, not by wire. Speed and altitude is relatively low, producing a lot of drag. Since it’s flying at a lower speed it seems to be capable of much sharper turns. Bogey does not appear to be armed, and has no squawk. Over.”

“Negative copy,” Red Eye said. “Did you say… _flying car_?”

“Affirmative,” Raleigh said.

There was a pause. “... Understood,” Red Eye said. “Our scopes have you over Carlisle now. You cannot engage unless as a last resort. Any way you can, get them to land at Waddington. Await further instructions. Out.”

The passenger looked out the window of the sedan and lifted his hands up defensively. Raleigh wagged the wings of the Harrier and waited for some sort of response. When he drifted away, the sedan didn’t follow. He adjusted his course again to where it was before, and wondered what to do.

Suddenly, the sedan decelerated rapidly into a descent and hover.

“Whoa!” Mimic yelped as Raleigh pulled around, leading his squadmate.

“Gorgon, break off, climb to angels two-two. Loiter and keep your radars on.”

“Roger,” Gorgon said. The F-15Cs ascended higher, leaving Raleigh’s bracket.

“Mimic, come back around and switch to vertical flight,” Raleigh said. “Bleed speed and altitude to match with them. We’re gonna show them not to fuck with us.”

“I like where your head’s at, Cheese.”

They pulled around and Raleigh flipped a few switches to activate the Harrier’s vertical flight mode. The four thrusters slowly shifted straight downwards, allowing the jump jet to float and strafe until, after half a minute, they were nose-to-nose with the UFO, six hundred feet above a church deep within Carlisle. This was a challenge.

After a few seconds of staring each other down, Raleigh waved in the direction of south and twirled his finger, indicating to follow him. The driver of the car nodded enthusiastically with noticeably boyish terror in his eyes. When they moved south, the UFO followed finally.

_Success!_

“November Thirteen to Red Eye,” Raleigh said. “Task complete. Returning to RAF Waddington with the UFO.”

——

RAF Waddington, Lincolnshire

15:32

The sedan, which the Royal Air Force and United States Air Force tandem operators were tentatively referring to as an unidentified flying object, landed gingerly in a grass clearing between the tarmac and Runway 02. Waiting for it was a pair of Land Rover Wolves armed with M240s and M2 Brownings backed by two trucks. A platoon of soldiers waited for the pilots of the UFO to disembark. L85A1s were leveled, rested, and propped against car doors, grass, and itchy trigger fingers. The No. 13 Harrier flight hovered over the base, watching carefully — and training 25mm guns on the landing zone.

Corporal Vickers approached the vehicle with Private Montag, weapons leveled. “Step out of the vehicle slowly,” he said. “Keep your hands up, where we can see them.”

The two operators of the UFO disembarked. They appeared to be young boys, no older than sixteen each. Their eyes glistened with terror.

“Montag,” Vickers ordered, “search the car.”

“Right,” Vickers said. He paced around the vehicle, his weapon now lowered, and went to the passenger door. He flung it open, weapon raised again, but was answered with a swift impact. A briefcase flew out at amazing speeds, knocking him onto the ground and spilling blood from his forehead. He didn’t even have time to shriek, out cold — or possibly dead — before he even hit the grass.

“Montag!” Vickers shouted. His voice was drowned out by the following gunfire. The .50 opened up, spraying heavy lead into the sedan. Vickers dove. The two kids dove. Sergeant Grayson sprinted over, tugging at the Land Rover Wolf’s gunner by the leg and screaming to cease fire.

“What’s gotten into you? Cease fire!” Grayson yelled.

The gunner looked down and slumped back after letting loose a solitary burst on the sedan. He swore. “I got spooked. I thought Montag was dead right there.”

Vickers sprinted over and grabbed Montag, lifting him over the shoulder and carrying him. The boys couldn’t help but flash him guilt-ridden expressions. Vickers checked Montag’s pulse with a medic by the truck. “He’s alive,” he said. “Probably quite concussed, but alive.”

The machine gunner sighed and slapped his gun, pivoting it skyward. Sergeant Grayson gave him a nasty look. “Take the fugitives in,” Grayson said. “Load them on the Land Rover and get them processed. When you’re back there, get a sapper up here.” He paused. “And a bomb squad.”

——

“We have much to be proud of, today,” Wulf said. “The world may not know it — in fact, it will never know it — but today is where the fruits of centuries of labor finally come to bear.

“Yes,” Aurelius said. “Yes, of course.” He stood from his desk and looked up at the Massive Particle Accelerator’s nearly completed chassis through the glass. Ten super cranes lowered it to the geofront from the surface a hundred meters above, connecting it to a tunnel that spanned dozens of miles. It would take hours for the tremendous machine to safely reach the bottom of the manmade chasm. Alarms periodically sounded to keep the staffers clear of the grounding zone. The PA was very active at this time but merely muffled beyond Wulf’s office.

Baths of light seeped in from above, clashing with the catwalks, concrete floor, and industrial machinery. They supplemented the industrial halogen lamps that seemed to always be on.

“In three months, we will conduct the first test,” Wulf said. “And we’re ahead of schedule. We still have nine years to complete the plan.”

“Even so,” Aurelius said, “there’s something to be said about that scuffle in Northern England last week. It’s ruffled quite a few feathers.”

Wulf nodded, craning his neck back a little. “The tips of the world seem to think they’re about to make contact with aliens,” he said. He smiled dryly. “They’re not entirely wrong.”

Aurelius raised an eyebrow but remained silent.

“They call us ‘muggles,’ do they not?” Wulf said, turning to face Aurelius. “They call… all this… the ‘muggle world.’ They believe themselves separate from humanity itself. They think they’re safe from us.”

“Perhaps, in their hubris, they believe us to be safer without them.”

Wulf shook his head. “Many of them say that, but it is merely a justification. Empty words they tell themselves as they sleep easy. But their world is small — and their minds are smaller.”

“Some of them are quite academic scholars.”

“Of course,” Wulf said. “They occupy their minds with nothing but spells and incantations, of technique and witchcraft, and of romance and fear. How myopic. They don’t even have the spines to call the man they hate so much by his real name.”

“You are talking about Riddle,” Aurelius said, “are you not?”

Wulf nodded. “He is useful to us,” he contemplated. “But the name he has adopted is quite… hilarious. It’s hard to take him seriously. But those of his kind are even more absurd.”

“I do agree with you there,” Aurelius said. “Can you imagine how silly it’d be if we couldn’t even _utter_ Hitler’s name? Or that of Stalin?”

Wulf paced up to the glass and peeked at either the MPA or his reflection. “It’s shameful,” he said. “To be so paralyzed with fear that it strangles your speech. Words are already so restrictive. The Father created language to limit the subjunctive testament of humanity. He segregated our will.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Aurelius said. “Soon.”

“Soon,” Wulf whispered. “We’ll let them play their little game with the Wizarding World. Indulge both sides; it won’t matter anyway. Nigh is the apotheosis.”


	2. The Conference

ACT I: CONTACT

August 15, 1992

RAF Waddington, Lincolnshire

11:03

The HC1 Puma finally set down at one of the helipads at Waddington. As the rotors slowed down enough to hear again, Scott Morgan stepped out of the passenger bay and shook hands with Mr. Stowe from MI-6, and the base’s commandant, Wing Commander Atkinson. “Good morning,” Morgan said with a yawn. He was jetlagged; it was a long flight on short notice from Baltimore/Washington International to Heathrow, and then an immediate, express RAF airlift to Waddington — the site of what British intelligence officers were already calling the “flying car incident.” If nothing else, he had plenty of time to review the briefings and incident reports.

“Pleased to see you made it,” Stowe said. “This is Wing Commander Atkinson. Mr. Atkinson, this is Mr. Morgan, CIA.”

“Pleasure,” Atkinson said with a quick shake and a handsome smile. “Let’s get you up to speed, then.”

“No time to waste, huh,” Morgan said.

As they walked to one of the office buildings on the base, Atkinson began.

“Twenty-odd hours ago, we discovered an anomalous radar contact outbound from London due north toward the Scottish countryside,” Atkinson said. “We initially thought it was a stealth fighter: a prelude to an attack. However, it appears to have instead been an unidentified flying object.”

“The flying car,” Morgan said.

“That’s correct,” Atkinson said. “We made contact and forced it to land here at Waddington. It was crewed by two young boys who claim to be students at a ‘magical school’ somewhere in the country.”

“Did they have IDs?” Morgan asked.

“They did. Both appear to have been born in 1980.”

“ _They’re twelve?!_ ” Morgan blurted out.

“So it would seem,” Atkinson said. “It’s as perplexing as it sounds.”

“Say,” Morgan started after a long thought. “If it was a flying car, then it was still a car… did it have a license plate?”

“Yes,” Atkinson said. “It did.”

Stowe caught on immediately. “I need to make a call to Scotland Yard,” he said.

“Exactly,” Morgan said.

——

August 20, 1992

NATO Allied Maritime Command (MARCOM)

Northwood Headquarters, Hertfordshire

18:25

The meeting began summarily with representatives from the United States Air Force, United States Navy, Royal Air Force, British Army, and Royal Navy present. They had been called nearly impromptu in response to an escalating situation which — to everyone’s surprise — was not related to Operation Desert Storm. Addressing the flag officers and junior adjutants were a British Army logistics & electronic warfare specialist; a data analyst from MI-6; a theoretical physicist at the University of California, Berkeley; and a CIA operations supervisor.

Lieutenant General Marigold, the British Army flag officer, stood and spoke. “The incident of today’s meeting represents a significant security threat to the British Isles and NATO MARCOM’s jurisdiction over Western Europe. A situation has developed following the events of August Fourteenth which is as perplexing as it is disturbing. Air-Commodore Stuy, please inform everyone of the situation at hand.” He sat down again and let the RAF officer speak.

Air-Commodore Stuy went over the details of the “flying car incident,” leafing through several classified manila folders and struggling to mention a few with a straight face.

Wing Commander Richardson leaned forward to speak. “Disregarding the… irregularities, I believe it is prudent to point out the fact that the Royal Air Force has grown quite lax about its air security in the last year since the collapse of the Soviet Union. It took _thirty-five minutes_ to get the Number Fifty-Seven squadron, a trio of Tornado F.2s, in the air as a QRA element. Six years ago, it would have taken five minutes.”

“I understand,” Marigold said, “but we aren’t here to talk about the Royal Air Force’s quick reaction alert efficiency right now.”

“Why not?” Major General Graves, a USAF officer, said as he spoke up. “I’m told that the RAF’s poor response time during this situation isn’t entirely their fault; the bogey appeared on radar _after_ it entered British airspace. If it gave the entire Royal Navy and their radar systems the slip, then it couldn’t have been a mistake.”

Marigold bit his lip. “The issue here,” he said, slowly, “is that the bogey originated from somewhere within the London area. There are even publicly noted accounts that corroborate this. The vehicle’s license plate is an English one, as well.”

“Hang on,” Vice Admiral Hayes, representing the USN’s share of MARCOM, said. “Did you say _license plate?_ On a flying car?”

“I’m afraid so,” Marigold said. “Upon further analysis, our sappers also discovered that there are no mechanical aerodynamics on board the UFO. Plainly, it’s just a car; it drove, the wheels turn, it had a working gear shift, and there was no part of it that was capable of flight. However, we have the gun camera footage from several aircraft — the Harriers and the Eagles — to prove that it did, indeed, fly.

“Gentlemen,” Marigold continued, “you have been assembled here for one and only one reason. On the surface level, this appears to be a strange and unexplainable situation; however, our use of the term ‘unidentified flying object,’ or ‘UFO,’ has not been irrespective of the implications and connotations of the word. My analysts at MI-6, in conjunction with the CIA, have concluded that there is a very high likelihood that we have stumbled into a first contact scenario with an extraterrestrial faction that attempted to infiltrate our species from beyond.”

A series of whispers reverberated around the amphitheater. Officers broke ranks and protocols and murmured among each other. No one fixed their gaze on Marigold anymore. Many adjusted their collars, or checked with their adjutants about something that might ease their nerves. Many more squirmed in their seats and ran their fingers through their hair several times.

“Ultimately, the jurisdiction falls to NATO MARCOM. As I speak, the Chiefs of Staff Committee at the MOD headquarters, the command staff of NORAD, as well as the Joint Chiefs of Staff at the Pentagon are being briefed on the situation. As of this moment, the American Department of Defense high command, British MOD high command, MI-6 and CIA, a select few officers at RAF Waddington, and everyone in this room are the only men in the world who are currently aware of this situation. Threat assessments are not complete, and our options are limited, however we are ultimately responsible for MARCOM’s next move over the next ten weeks. That decision point will have to come today, in this room.”

The projector powered up and the physicist, introduced as Dr. Harling, spoke as a number of equations, graphs, and charts took form on the screen behind him and dazzled the officers. He flipped to the next slide, which showed photographs of the Ford Anglia recovered from the incident. Under the hood, which had several high-caliber bullet holes riddled throughout, the engine was nothing out of the ordinary for a sedan, save for several mangled pistons and oil stains where there shouldn’t have been.

“This is the vehicle recovered from the incident,” Dr. Harling said. “As you can see, under the hood it appears to have been a perfectly normal car. There are no functions to its engine that accommodate subsonic flight in the way it was observed to. Because of the damage sustained, it was also impossible to replicate the conditions of flight.”

“If it was just a car,” Major General Graves said, “then I don’t see how it could have flown damaged or undamaged. It’s not like it has a compressor under the hood.”

“We’re currently cross-referencing with Ford all the details we can, including the serial numbers on select parts. The license plate number is also being cross-referenced with Scotland Yard’s resources, as it is a London registration. Unfortunately, we don’t have any leads yet. It’s too soon. As for how it was able to fly… I can’t say I understand cars nor flying machines, but I do understand probability. It’s entirely possible that what we are dealing with is… something else. If it is, in fact, an extraterrestrial being meant to blend in, then it may be so advanced that we cannot even understand it. If it is meant to infiltrate, then it would only make sense that it’d be virtually indistinguishable from another car.”

“This is all too much speculation,” Wing Commander Richardson said. “We find one anomalous aircraft over the English countryside and the first thing we think is _aliens?_ ”

Marigold rubbed his temples for a second as the Wing Commander continued.

The CIA officer exchanged a long look with the MI-6 officer, and then stepped forward. “If there is anyone in this room with a shadow of a doubt as to what we’re dealing with, I think you should see this.” He grabbed the physicist’s remote and turned to the next slide, showing the entire room gun camera footage, detailed photographs, and radar telemetry of the flying sedan. It was extensive enough to convince anyone present immediately. The murmurs erupted again.

“I… stand corrected,” Richardson said. “That _is_ remarkable.”

“Pragmatically,” Marigold said, “the joint intelligence services came to the conclusion after ruling out every global power in the world. There simply isn’t a technology that can replicate this scientific phenomenon known to humanity. As reluctant as we are to believe it… we are under the impression that, thus, this faction has nothing to do with humanity.”

Air-Commodore Stuy stood up. "We need to make a move," he projected. "While other organizations are currently planning on what they should collectively do, we need to act now. I suggest we task the RAF to it."

"The U.S. Navy is much better suited to such a task," Vice Admiral Hayes said. "We have naval power, air power, and a ground element present in the United Kingdom right now. On top of that, we have a sizeable USAF presence."

"No, no," Stuy said. "I'd never stand for that. An operation led entirely by Americans on British soil? I—"

"That's enough!" Marigold belted. They all ceased, gazing down at the podium. "I did not call you here to pick out a single organization to carry out future operations. My associates and I have all agreed that we should suggest that an international task force be formed right here, right now — a joint effort between the RAF, the USAF, the U.S. Navy, the British Army, and all other parties represented in today's meeting. We can hammer out the details later.

"Does _anyone_ have an objection to that?"

The room was silent for a moment.

"All in favor of the formation of Joint Task Force Anglia," Marigold said, taking a deep breath and briefly scanning the array of officers, "raise one hand."

The decision was almost unanimous.


	3. Obliviation

August 23, 1992

Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon

11:26

A gunshot exploded inside the building. The windows of the scrappy house flashed brightly, contrasting even against the late morning in the English countryside.

“What the hell?” Morgan yelled with a jump. He unholstered his Browning Hi-Power.

“Alpha Niner,” Stowe barked into his Bowman C2, “get in there!”

Twelve Sabres broke the clearing from the treeline and brush, sprinting after the entrance. Morgan followed behind them. The Sabres leveled submachine guns and rifles at it as they stacked up on the house. Sergeant Crowley silently signaled two of his men to take point and breach the door.

The point man, wielding an MP5, lined up his boot with the door handle and kicked it in. The one behind him rushed in, L85A1 at the ready.

Crowley followed shortly after with six other squadron members. Morgan went in behind him.

Shouting down the residents, they found a strange sight in the kitchen. Two local police officers and a British Army liaison were sitting quietly over some tea, in front of a standing middle-aged, red-haired man wielding an incandescently glowing ornate wand.

“You! Drop that!” Crowley yelled. “Drop it now!”

The man dropped it, raising his arms up high.

“Are you Arthur Weasley?”

“I am,” he said, slowly. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Do not move,” Crowley said.

Morgan walked up to the liaison. “Captain Finch, are you alright? What happened?”

Finch stood up, perplexed. “I’m sorry, have we met?” The other two officers seemed just as concerned as him.

“What?” Morgan asked.

“We haven’t met,” Finch said. “I’d introduce myself as Captain Finch, but…”

“Is this a joke?” Morgan asked. “We spoke just a few minutes ago, about the flying car incident, and the Weasley Residence, and—” he stopped.  _ Could it be? _

Finch only shook his head, waving his hand. “What ever do you mean,  _ flying car _ ?”

“Have you discharged your weapon, sir?” Crowley asked.

“No,” Finch said. “Of course not.”

Morgan looked them over. “Did the officers? What did they shoot?” he asked.

The police officers looked just as perplexed. “We don’t have guns.”

“... Right,” Morgan said. “Britain.”

“Stop already!” Weasley said. “It’s clear enough that I’ve made a terrible mistake. I obliviated them.”

A few Sabres swung their weapons over towards Weasley.

“That’s enough,” Crowley said. He motioned two men to arrest him, and they complied until Morgan halted them, stepping forward.

“What are you talking about?” Morgan asked. “You erased them?”

“Mr. Morgan,” Crowley said. Morgan just held his hand up.

“I  _ obliviated _ them. It’s… oh, my, I don’t think I can get around this one. It’s a spell that erases memories. I used it with that magic wand. Your men here were discussing my car, and then they mentioned that it was flying, and I sort of panicked and made them forget everything about the matter.”

Morgan took a step closer. “You mean to tell me that the flying Ford Anglia spotted over Northern England just over a week ago was, indeed, your car?”

“Yes,” Weasley whispered. “Yes, it was. Officer, may I ask to whom I am speaking and upon what charges I am being detained?”

Morgan took a step back, letting the soldiers handcuff him properly. “I don’t have full authority over your detainment, but… I’m Scott Morgan. United States Central Intelligence Agency. These men are from a Sabre squadron in the Special Air Service. You’re going to have to come with us; we have a few questions to ask you.”

It took a few hours to negotiate a calmer atmosphere amongst his family members, who bore witness to this whole scene, but Arthur Weasley came without protest.

——

August 23, 1992

Obliviator Headquarters, Ministry of Magic

Westminster, London

15:56

“They  _ what? _ ” the minister of the Obliviator, Malcolm Lovejoy, asked. He ran his fingers through his hair for the third time today.

Thomas Mayfield ducked his head. “The muggles took in Weasley before we could get to him,” he said. We interviewed the Weasleys. They came with full force - British Army, and an American intelligence agent.”

“An American!” Malcolm shouted. “What the fuck are the Yanks doing in all this?”

Thomas shrugged. “The Americans have had a presence in England since the Second World War. Don’t you read the news?”

“Second World War,” Lovejoy said, prodding his chin with his index finger. “That’s the one that lasted a hundred years, right?”

“No, no,” Thomas said. “That was the Hundred Years War.”

“Then what was the Second World War? — nevermind it. Has DMAC sent a squad?”

“Yes,” Thomas said. “They’ve investigated the region and found evidence of British Army activity.”

“You’re repeating yourself again,” Malcolm said. He rested his elbows on his desk and rubbed his temples. “This is… difficult; it harbors ridiculous consequences.”

“What do you mean?”

“Think about it,” Malcolm said. “A group of muggle soldiers, British constables, an American, and Arthur fucking Weasley in their custody in the same room? Weasley  _ loves _ muggles. He’s not hard-willed. He’ll talk, not out of fear but out of the goodness of his heart and his  _ unbearable _ honesty. Without the ability to ‘harmlessly’ obliviate them, it’s over.”

Thomas shifted his stance. A spell of worry overtook his expressions. “It’s… over? Do you mean…?”

“I mean the Wizarding World is  _ over _ ,” Malcolm said. “At least, the way we know it.” He rose and exited his office. Thomas followed.

“Don’t you think this is a bit out of proportion? I mean, muggles encounter wizards all the time. It’s a trivial matter to obliviate them.”

“You don’t get it,” Malcolm said. “The British Army took Weasley in. We can’t just  _ obliviate _ an entire muggle organization.” He stopped in his tracks as a terrible idea struck his mind.

“Why not?” Thomas asked.

Malcolm spun on his heel. “Assemble a team. Six DMAC squads, led by our best Obliviators. I’m going to see if we can track Weasley down.”

——

August 25, 1992

RAF Waddington, Lincolnshire

20:33

Tommy Vickers sighed. The sky was still and dark.

When he’d first joined two years ago, he thought he’d be fighting Russians by the end of ‘93. Maybe the whole world would end, too. It wasn’t a question of whether or not he wanted to see action, but instead about duty. He was strong enough to make it through the training of the British Army and patriotic enough to want to. Maybe, one day, he’d make officer — and build a real career out of that.

Tonight, however, Vickers was on guard post at Waddington, an RAF base in the middle of nowhere. No war, no Russians, not a bloody thing. He lit a cigarette to help warm up. Tonight he was instructed to keep his rifle loaded. It felt unnecessary.

He looked up, thinking to himself about the flying car. Was that all a dream? Why was everyone on the base still so nonchalant about it? He supposed that’s really all you  _ can _ do in a situation like this. The few people who were excited by the event kept throwing around the word  _ alien _ — and they had a compelling case. But everyone else, like him, just thought about the job most of the time.

If war with Russia didn’t scare them — if even the prospect of nuclear annihilation didn’t make the British spirit quiver — why should a couple visitors from another world?

Montag sighed.

“How’s your headache?” Vickers asked.

“No better than yesterday,” Montag said. “Apparently even these helmets won’t protect you from a concussion.”

Vickers smiled. “Walk it off,” he said.

“Hey,” Montag said, leaning forward into the post of the guard tower. “You see that?”

“No,” Vickers said. “What is it?” He slowly reached for his L85A1.

“Something’s moving in the treeline.”

“How can you tell?” Vickers asked.

“I can’t,” Montag said. “I can just  _ barely _ see it. Might be an animal.”

Vickers’ hand stopped. A bright flash erupted and shot towards them, striking Montag directly. They both yelled; Vickers reached down and scooped up his rifle, sighting in at the source and firing six shots blindly before ducking below the post.

“Montag! You good?”

Montag looked up. “Who?”

“Get your head down!” He grabbed Montag by the shoulder, pulling him to a crouch.

“Where am I?”

“You didn’t hit your head  _ again _ , did you?” Vickers asked.

“What?” Montag asked. “Who are you?”

“What? What’s gotten into you, Private?”

“Are you a soldier?” Montag asked. “What is this?”

Vickers groaned and clutched his rifle. “Keep your head down, mate,” he said, and peeked back up.

Spotlights from the other towers switched on within seconds. Radio chatter skyrocketed with officers and RTOs looking for Vickers’ post which suddenly traded shots at the main gate. Sirens wailed behind him.

More bright, otherworldly flashes struck the other towers — some silencing gunners, some not. Vickers traced the sources and opened fire.

A firebolt struck the base of his tower and exploded it. The pylons and rods came loose, knocking the top over with Vickers and Montag still in it. “Hang on!” Vickers shouted. “Just hang—” the tower hit the ground outside the fence perimeter. The two soldiers tumbled out.

“Oh, fuck, my arm,” Montag said. Vickers barely heard Montag over the gunfire.

“Cover me!” Vickers yelled. He looked around and found his rifle in the grass a few meters away. He wrapped the sling around his neck and sprinted to the left. In the meantime, Montag got his act together and fired wild, untrained bursts into the treeline. “Get the radio!” Vickers shouted.

Montag didn’t.

Vickers came running back, dodging flashes in the air like they were slower and more visible bullets. He slid into the grass near Montag and inspected the radio equipment. The crash destroyed everything. Circuit boards and lockboxes were sprawled out all over the grounds, and the darkness concealed most of the things that appeared relatively intact. The wires connecting to the generator had also been fried.

Vickers got up and slapped Montag’s shoulder. “Keep me covered,” he said, and turned to collecting as much equipment he could.

Montag turned, yelling as he squeezed his L85A1’s trigger repeatedly, but only heard a click as the hammer struck nothing. A figure had approached only ten meters away, poising his arm forward and pointing toward Montag with a wooden wand. “Obliviate!” the figure yelled. A white-hot burst struck Montag, making him step back.

Vickers got up, drew his rifle, and put six rounds into the figure. The man dropped clutching his chest and died in the grass. Vickers reloaded swiftly and knelt.

“Montag?” he asked. “You good?”

Montag remained standing. He said nothing. He looked around, eyes full of terror.

“Montag!”

Montag did not respond to his name.

More flashes came out of the dark, striking the fence. It melted down, exploded, and split in half at different points. Vickers grabbed Montag by the shoulder and pulled him away, forcing them both into a full sprint. “Come on!” he yelled. “Come on!” 

A deafening whirr occurred distantly, growing louder and louder. Vickers knew what it was: a pair of helicopters. Montag halted, staring in awe as two spotlights flashed in the distance. He yelled something incoherently and pointed.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Vickers said. “Come on!” He tugged Montag again, bringing him along. “We’ve got to go!”

The helicopters were U.S. Army. They were two Apache Longbows that had been transferred from Alconbury the other day. With great timing, too. Their chin-mounted 30mm guns spat fire, ripping apart the treeline behind Vickers.

A Land Rover Wolf rolled up, stopping just before Vickers. Sergeant Grayson motioned him over. “Corporal Vickers!” he yelled.

“Enemies are at the gate!” Vickers shouted back. “Montag took a few hits. He’s not hurt, but something’s wrong with him.”

“Get him to a med station, then get back here!”

“On it, Sergeant!” Vickers yelled, pulling Montag back into the heart of the base. He flagged down a Private who seemed to be trying to join the fight. “Get my man to a med station, now!” He passed over Montag, who protested audibly and wordlessly. There was confusion until montag threw a right hook at the Private, who swore and whacked him upside the head with the stock of his rifle.

Montag was out cold.

“Shit,” Vickers said.

“Fuck!” the Private said. “I—I didn’t mean to!”

“I don’t have time for this,” Vickers said. He hopped on the balls of his feet.

“I’ll get him to a med station,” the Private said.

Vickers gave him a thumbs-up and returned to the Land Rover Wolf. “Rough night, huh?” he asked Grayson.

Grayson looked at him, eyes glazed over like Montag’s just a second ago. He was utterly catatonic.

“Sergeant Grayson,” Vickers said, nudging him. “Orders?”

The whole crew seemed suddenly incompetent.

“Grayson!”

Nothing. They just stared at him. Vickers swore and crept up to the hood of the Land Rover Wolf, setting up his rifle. A few figures wielding wands scrambled around the base’s entrance, which was now illuminated with flames and explosions and flares. Sirens wailed, which could only be heard faintly over the whirring and firing of the helicopters.

A man stood tall in the center of the carnage, pointed at one of the Apaches, and screamed, “Diffindo!”

A beam of light connected with the lead Apache. Its tail immediately severed from its fuselage, crashing into the ground beneath it. Without anti-torque, what remained — the engine, main rotor, guns, rocket pods, and pilots — spun uncontrollably until smashing into the ground and disappearing behind an enormous kerosene fireball that knocked Vickers off his feet and chimed his ears like bells.

He got up, barely conscious, barely able to hear anything, and saw the figure that apparently destroyed a state-of-the-art American attack helicopter. He raised his L85A1 and put two rounds into the man; the rifle clicked empty afterwards, and Vickers’ entire body fell limp.

When he recovered again, a half-dozen troopers had joined him. They had their rifles leveled and began opening fire at the attackers.

He joined their formation as they swept the grounds. “Push ‘em back!” one yelled. “Watch for those flashes!”

The other Apache’s machine gun unloaded a few dozen rounds into the grass ahead of them, leaving craters in the trail. Seconds later, a bright bolt struck the underbelly and its magazine exploded, killing both pilots instantly and turning it over. The helicopter crashed into a barracks. It crushed both floors under its roof and burned the rest down in seconds.

Vickers yelled. A lot. His throat burned.

One of the troopers ran up close to an attacker and fired three times point-blank: two in the chest, one in the head. The one next to him swung his wand over and began a strange incantation, but was cut off. Another trooper grappled him from behind and wrestled the wand out of his hand until the man’s wrist snapped and he shrieked and dropped it. He was subdued quickly.

Vickers came up to them. “How many of you are left?” he demanded, pointing his rifle at the man’s forehead.

“It’s just me, I’m afraid,” the man said. “You’ve killed the others. And that helicopter turned about half of them into human paste.”

“Yeah,” Vickers said, shoving him back. The man stumbled into another trooper. “Yeah, we fuckin’ did.”

A few troopers hooted. The one standing behind the captured man stepped around and gingerly placed his hand on Vickers’ shoulder. “Stand down,” he whispered.

Vickers slowly lowered his rifle. He looked over the soldiers. There were three Privates he could identify by name. “Hawfield, Raleigh, Brookes, search the perimeter. Take anyone you can,” he said. “Find survivors and take them to the med station!”

They nodded and jogged away. Vickers came to the man.

“Identify yourself,” he ordered. One of the troopers brought up a torch to flash in his face, revealing a reasonably built, middle-aged white man with blue eyes and graying black hair.

“My name is Malcolm Lovejoy,” he said, deliberately, raising his hands. “Minister of the Obliviator under the Ministry of Magic.”

“You what?” Vickers asked, pressing the barrel of his rifle into Lovejoy’s neck. “Is that a fuckin’ joke, mate? You wanna end up like your buddies out in the—”

Several people spoke at once.

Lovejoy said: “It’s the truth!”

Corporal Hitch said: “Vickers, calm down!”

Private Winslow said: “Fuck off with that!”

Corporal Redding said: “Easy!”

Private Harling said: “Hey, hey! Corporal!”

No one heard anyone over each other. Vickers lowered his rifle again when the commotion died down. “You two, take ‘em back up there,” Vickers ordered. “Detain and bring him in. Obviously. The rest of you, let’s take a body count.”

Even though some of the NCOs present were his rank, not one objected to his orders. A couple locked arms with the man and roughly walked him up toward the head-shed; the rest dispersed in teams of two to find survivors. Vickers went with Private Harling.

An American CIA officer emerged from the head-shed and approached Vickers and Harling. He had his hands wrapped around a Browning Hi-Power at the low-ready position. “Situation?” the agent asked.

“We were attacked, sir,” Vickers said. “We didn’t lose many, save for the two Apaches and whoever was caught in the crash zones. Area’s almost secure. One captive.”

“Enemy known?” the officer asked.

“No, sir,” Vickers said. “I have to advise you to retreat until the area is—”

“Take me to the captive,” the officer said. An MI-6 officer was behind him. The British Intelligence officer just nodded and waved his hand to usher Vickers back.

“Of course, sir,” Vickers said, stiffening. The four of them made after the troopers who had Lovejoy and flagged them down. “Change of plan,” he barked. “Hand over the captive to the spooks.” The soldiers complied. Lovejoy was escorted away.

Several hours later, Vickers visited Montag at the hospital unit at RAF Waddington. A number of minimally injured soldiers had been admitted that night. They all had the same symptoms: catatonia, incoherent babbling, traumatic staring, memory loss, and an inability to focus or comprehend basic commands. The men, who just the night before were functioning soldiers of the British Army, had suddenly transformed intellectually into bears.

Lieutenant Vale spoke to Vickers in the other room. “We had to sedate him multiple times, throughout the night,” she said. “He refused all treatments, refused to speak. He seemed even unresponsive to us except for when we got close.”

Vickers crossed his arms. “That doesn’t sound like him at all.”

“Were you close?” Vale asked.

“We  _ are _ ,” Vickers said. He didn’t appreciate the use of past-tense.

“Normally I would have to ask him to verify that,” Vale began, “but that does not seem possible anymore.”

Vickers shook his head. “There must be some mistake, ma’am,” he said. “You should be able to just ask him. He’s my battle buddy.”

Vale paced over to one of their overhead projectors, checking to make sure they were alone, locking the door, and closing all the shutters. “I’m not supposed to show you this, but…”

As Vickers followed, some slides appeared on the wall. They were scans of someone’s brain—presumably Montag’s. They looked ordinary, simple X-ray images of a brain like in his secondary school biology and anatomy textbooks.

Vale pointed to some bits on the frontal lobe, skimming the top, and central brain stem. “Along this route is where most of the synapses associated with long-term memory storage.”

Vickers’ gut tied itself into a knot.

“Everything you remember, including muscle memory — pattern recognition, skills, language — is stored here.”

“Okay?” Vickers said.

“In the preliminary brain scans of Private Montag,” Vale said, deliberately and slowly, “we found that all of his synapses in these regions of the brain had been irreparably damaged or severed; some destroyed.”

Vickers stammered. “W-what?” he asked. “You don’t mean…”

“This was also the case for Sergeant Grayson,” Vale said, “and the other members of your team.”

He stopped and remained silent.

“I’m sorry,” Vale said. “This doesn’t leave this room; the information here is extremely classified due to the nature of—”

“I know,” Vickers said. “I know, the aliens. Hush-hush. I saw the spooks.”

“Not aliens,” Vale said. “I hear that they’re… wizards. But you didn’t hear that from me. Am I heard?”

“Lima-charlie, ma’am,” Vickers said after a pause, straightening himself. It took him a moment to process that.  _ Wizards? _ “Is there… anything I can do? Can he get his memories back? Or maybe we can rehabilitate him?”

“Unfortunately,” Vale continued, “I… am not optimistic. I remember reading in a journal published a few years ago at Cambridge about feral children. If you don’t speak  _ any _ language by the age of five or six, you’ll never be able to socialize properly.”

“Feral?” Vickers asked.

“Yeah,” Vale said. “That’s… that’s the best way I can describe them right now. They have instincts, they are conscious and even self-aware, but they have no way to socialize or communicate with people. They’re like men raised by wolves.”

“I have one more question,” Vickers said. “Please, doc…”

Vale gave him a pained smile. “One more answer,” she said.

“The psychological… or, uh, neurological damage… it was dealt the same way with all of my squad. It was  _ consistent _ , if I’m hearing this all correctly. So… how?”

Lieutenant Vale took a step closer and lowered her tone. “I’m not supposed to tell you,” she said. “I’ve only overheard conversations, tidbits of info. I’m under a lot of pressure here.”

“I understand,” Vickers said. “Sorry, ma’am. Don’t—”

“The spooks mentioned a spell called ‘Obliviation.’ It means to erase memories. They think the wizards can… deal… magic spells.”


	4. Electrosphere

August 26, 1992

RAF Waddington, Lincolnshire

10:04

Mr. Stowe placed the wand down on the dimly-lit table. “Explain this,” he ordered.

Malcolm Lovejoy raised his shackled hands from the other side as if to shrug. “It’s a wand,” he said.

Morgan watched Lovejoy’s eyes. Sometimes you could tell if they were lying from their eyes — but statistically, thirty percent of the time the body language gives off false positives. “It’s not just a wand, though, is it?”

“Perhaps.”

“Your men were seen on the field using it to, as they say, ‘obliviate.’” Stowe said. “They also managed to destroy two American helicopters, killing twenty-five people including the pilots.”

“That isn’t our fault,” Lovejoy said, leaning back. His eyes were full of contempt.

Stowe leaned forward. His tie rested against the edge of the table. “This isn’t a trial,” Stowe hissed. A milliliter of venom dense enough to kill an elephant seeped into his voice. “I saw it firsthand, and I read and double-checked all of the after-action reports. Your wands killed my men. Explain to me how they work.”

Lovejoy bit his lip, thinking. Stowe thumped his hands on the table. Morgan stopped him. “Hey,” Morgan said. “Just give him a second.”

Stowe sat back, fixed his tie, and cleared his throat. “Apologies.”

“The wands, per se, don’t work without the hand of a magical person. A wizard. Not only a wizard, but its owner.”

“Right,” Morgan said. “We’ve heard that. How do we believe you?”

“Well,” Lovejoy said, “you could easily verify it by trying to cast a spell yourselves. You muggles won’t be able to do a thing, but you have already seen what a wizard can do.”

Morgan picked up the wand, pointed it at Lovejoy, and spoke an incantation. “Obliviate,” he commanded. Nothing happened. He handed it over to Stowe and shrugged. “I guess you’re right,” he said.

Stowe held the wand in his hand and inspected it. He scowled. The wand seemed to slip out of his hand and levitate, whipping around in the air and smacking him upside the head before falling inertly to the table.

Morgan drew his Browning Hi-Power and stood. “Hey! Pal!” he yelled. His hands were wrapped around the holster and his eyes drawn through the sight toward Lovejoy’s forehead in half a second.

Lovejoy put up his hands with a wide-eyed look.

“What the fuck was that?” Stowe asked, rubbing his temple.

Morgan slowly lowered his gun after a nerve-wracking silence.

“It doesn’t like you very much,” Lovejoy said. “Sometimes they’re… _particularly_ unruly with specific people.”

Morgan wrote down a note to ask more questions about the wand. Before Stowe could, he reached into his folder and pulled out a few photographs. He slid them across the table to Lovejoy, whose eyes lit up at the sight.

“That’s… Weasley’s car.”

“You know him?” Morgan asked.

“Yes,” Lovejoy said. “Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office.”

Morgan leaned forward. “What is that, exactly?” he asked.

Lovejoy silenced himself. 

“Come on,” Stowe said. “Talk. We could just shoot you and leave you in a ditch.”

“Alright!” Lovejoy said. “For fuck’s sakes. What’s the bloody point of telling you all this, anyway? Hasn’t Weasley blabbed his mouth off already?”

“That isn’t your concern,” Morgan said. It was true—Weasley had been much more cooperative and eye-opening in the last several days of detainment—but Morgan was not about to tell him. He needed to verify if the information given to them by Weasley was accurate. If it could be, in any way, corroborated.

“The Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office is a branch of the Ministry of Magic,” Lovejoy said. “I am the head of the Office of the Obliviator, which is responsible for maintaining magical secrecy.”

“By wiping out the memories of innocent people,” Stowe said.

“It’s a mostly harmless process,” Lovejoy said. He leaned back, trying to cross his arms, but couldn’t because of the shackles. “Depending on the level of skill and pressure the user is undergoing, it can be very precise: only destroying the memories of seeing magic in their lives. All this is… to keep the Wizarding World safe.”

Morgan exchanged an uneasy look with Stowe. Lovejoy was incredibly lax about this. As Stowe began to pull more documents from his folder, Morgan carried on with questioning.

“So… it’s a spell. Like, magic, witches, wizards, et cetera?”

“Correct,” Lovejoy said.

“Like the Salem Witch Trials?”

“It was an event relevant to us,” Lovejoy said.

Morgan leaned forward a bit. “Out of curiosity… were the people persecuted during the Salem Witch Trials… actually witches, then?”

“Of course not,” Lovejoy said. “No witch or wizard would ever be so foolish to get caught up in muggle business — _especially_ not enough to be executed. Many wizards and witches framed innocent muggles instead.”

Morgan wrote it down. Lovejoy scowled as he realized how tremendously off-color that sounded out loud.

Stowe fished out the most outstanding medical cases from the night before, which they had just gotten their hands on: the report for Sergeant Grayson, Private Montag, Corporal Halliwell, Private Sherman, Sergeant Winters, Lieutenant Perrault, and Captain Shawleigh — all of whom were British Army soldiers on security detail when the Obliviators attacked; all of whom were affected by the spell, although they weren’t the only ones.

Lovejoy looked at the X-ray scans, fMRI scans, and numerous other neuro-imaging data packets. He read the abstract of one of the papers Dr. Vale was working on. “What is this?” he asked.

“I was hoping you’d be able to tell us,” Morgan said. “It appears that these are the results of what you call the ‘obliviate’ spell. You’ve lobotomized upwards of fifteen security staff on the base; they’ve lost everything they should remember, including their lives, their names, families, how to perform fine motor skills, and their ability to speak and process language. It’s impossible to communicate with them; it’s impossible to rehabilitate them.”

“Oh, no,” Lovejoy said. “No, no, there’s no way… it can’t be.”

“You might as well have killed them,” Stowe said. “We don’t have a legal framework for something as heinous as this; in fact, you’ve sealed their fates to something far worse than if you were to simply _euthanize_ them with some other twisted spell if there is such a thing.”

Morgan put his hand on Stowe’s shoulder. “I have to ask one thing. Is it possible to reverse the ‘obliviate’ spell?”

Lovejoy’s eyes were glued to the table. The shame was palatable. “No,” he said. He looked like a drunk driver, at his hearing, who’d just been convicted of manslaughter after running over a school bus of children.

“Your compatriots are lucky,” Stowe said. “They were killed in the firefight, but that only spared them from the consequences of what they’ve done. The damage that’s already _done_.”

Morgan’s eyes darted to Stowe, and then back. A twinge of anger, shared with Stowe, came up his chest. At the same time, he stifled it. He felt irritated.

“We’re done for now,” Morgan said. “You’ll be taken to a cell in the detention center for an indefinite amount of time. We will return with more questions.” He packed up the files, stood, and followed Stowe out of the room. When he shut the door behind him, he snapped. “What the fuck was that?”

“What was _what?_ ” Stowe said.

“I understand what you’re going through,” Morgan said. “I really do. I know how you feel about losing your fellow countrymen in—”

“Don’t patronize me,” Stowe said. “I don’t think that’s quite necessary.”

“I need you to keep your composure,” Morgan said. “If you can’t go forward with the questioning without it, then don’t. I don’t blame you. I don’t have a problem with you. But I can’t have you getting in the way of my questioning.”

Stowe sighed, looking down the hall. “Fuck me,” he whispered.

Morgan led him down the hall and outside, onto the recovering base grounds. Emergency crews were still digging people out of the west barracks, dead or alive. He offered a cigarette to Stowe, who took it and lit one for himself.

“Long night,” Morgan said.

“Yeah,” Stowe said. “Yeah, I haven’t slept in twenty-six hours.”

“I don’t think anyone has,” Morgan said. “You should get some rest. Something tells me we’re gonna be all-hands-on-deck from here on out.”

Stowe let out a long huff of smoke. “Ooh, vanilla. I’ll rest as soon as I finish my report to MARCOM. I will.” He already sounded delirious.

“Oh, yeah, yeah,” Morgan said. “And I’ll rest when I fix my fuckin’ divorce.”

“I’m serious,” Stowe said. “I will.”

“So am I,” Morgan said with a chuckle.

Stowe grinned and turned away, blowing another huff of smoke. He took the cigarette out of his lips to emphasize it. “Thanks for this,” he said. “And don’t work yourself too hard.”

——

Vickers stepped out of Montag’s hospital booth for the last time. He grabbed his Denison smock and fitted it over himself as he headed back outside. It took him a few minutes to get out of the hospital. The staff was much busier than usual. He went back to his barracks.

The barracks were half empty. His squadmates, who had mostly suffered the same fates as Montag, were absent from their bunks.

Most of the squads were busy after the attack, but through a strange draw of luck Vickers was given four days of libos, free to leave the base. He packed in less than an hour and left through the front gate at dawn. No one seemed to notice him leave except the guards at the checkpoint.

Six miles down Sleaford Road, a car pulled over and rolled the window down.

“Where you headed, mate?” the driver asked.

“Birmingham,” Vickers said.

“That’s a long way from here,” came the reply.

“Close enough,” Vickers said.

The driver unlocked the door. “How ‘bout I give you a ride some of the way?”

“Sure,” Vickers said. “Cheers.” He tossed his bag into the back and climbed into the passenger seat.

“Excuse the mess,” he said. “It’s been a rough couple of weeks.”

“Yeah,” Vickers said. “Me, too.”

The driver seemed to be only a few years older than Vickers. His eyes were youthful and vibrantly blue. He was a bit lanky, not particularly active, and carried his voice with an eccentric air.

“I’m Jack, by the way,” the driver said, extending a hand as the car began moving.

Vickers shook it. “Vi—I’m Tommy,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Thanks,” Jack said. “You Army?”

“Yeah,” Vickers answered.

“Northumberland Fusiliers?” Jack asked, noticing Vickers’ patch. “I think those guys went to the Gulf, right?”

“Some did,” Vickers said.

“You see any action?”

Vickers clutched his left pocket. “In a manner of speaking, yeah,” he said.

“Nice,” Jack said. “My brother’s in Iraq now. He writes home occasionally.”

“Everything’s going well for him?” Vickers asked.

“You tell me,” Jack said with a chuckle. “He says it’s all good for the most part, but you never know how much they’re just hiding to make you feel better.”

“Yeah,” Vickers said. He watched the English countryside roll by out the window.

There seemed to be some tension in the air. Jack was reluctant to say much else, and Vickers wasn’t in a talkative mood.

A few minutes passed.

“So,” Jack started, “why Birmingham?”

“Family,” Vickers said. “I got some time off. Thought I’d spring them a surprise visit.”

“Your parents?” Jack asked.

“Yeah,” Vickers said. He didn’t say what he was thinking next; he didn’t say that he needed to see them. Instead, he tightened his grip on the seatbelt and locked his eyes away.

About thirty minutes down the drive, Jack spoke up again. “You know, I’m actually heading to Birmingham myself today. I can just take you the rest of the way.”

“Sure,” Vickers said. “Cheers.” He reached into his wallet and fished out twenty quid, but Jack turned it down.

“No need,” Jack said, holding his hand up.

“Thanks,” Vickers said.

“You know,” Jack whispered, “I heard quite a racket last night up near the base. I think everyone did.”

“Yeah,” Vickers said. “That why you’re driving to Birmingham?”

“I don’t plan to come back,” Jack murmured.

After a long pause, Vickers said, “neither do I.”

“Do you know what happened?” Jack asked. A few minutes had passed.

“I do,” Vickers said. “And I can’t tell you.”

“Russians?”

“No,” Vickers said.

“Chinese?” Jack said.

“No,” Vickers answered.

“Iraqis?” Jack said. “Is it the bloody French?”

“No,” Vickers said. “None of that. We’re not at war, not yet.”

“Mate, it _sounded_ like a fuckin’ war out there,” Jack said.

“I know,” Vickers said. He crossed his arms and sighed. “I was there.”

The ride felt longer now that it was quiet again. They passed through Grantham in silence.

——

August 28, 1992

Laboratory of Structure Control (LSC), Hokkaido University

Hokkaido, Japan

11:10

Dr. Sato greeted Shawn with a bow and brought him into the conference room. “This is Doctor Roth,” Sato said. They all stood, youngest first, no matter their standing in the team. Shawn smiled at the gesture. The Japanese were always strange about respect; it was given and taken in a very unique way.

They all spoke English since it was the only common language in the room; the whole purpose of the meeting was to brief Shawn.

Individuals were introduced to Shawn, from youngest to oldest, with the senior director of the laboratory, Dr. Miyani, introduced second to last, before Dr. Zhee. The briefing began when Shawn took a seat with everyone else. He laid flat his notes on the table and took out his pen.

“Shall we get started?” Dr. Sato asked, standing up and switching on the projector. He flipped through a series of charts, discussing them with a few members of his team at the round table. The man then settled on a photograph of the artifact, which was taken several days prior when it arrived in the analysis lab. It was a narrow, ornate, walnut wand. “We have aggregated very little comprehensive information about this device and how it was able to cause so much destruction.”

The next slide displayed a cross-section of the wand, sliced near-perfectly in half. Blond rings and splinters were encased in the eloquently treated brown exterior. Encased perfectly in the center of the staff was a small, nearly translucent gem. Its grains were smooth as it was sliced through cleanly. The image next to it was of the laboratory itself, with a large hole bored through one of the walls.

“When attempting to saw it in half,” Dr. Sato started, “the device exhibited strange and highly volatile behavior. It may have a number of fail-safes we aren’t aware of, but they were disabled immediately after we used… well, a meat cleaver. The electromagnetic interference ceased shortly thereafter.”

A few smirks wrote up the faces of the men at the round table. Even Dr. Zhee, who seemed as old and as disciplined as a modern-day Samurai, cracked a smile. Shawn couldn’t help but chuckle. He raised his hand. “There have been a few previous reports in England regarding electromagnetic interference, as well,” Shawn said. “Do you think this is related?”

“So far,” Dr. Sato said, “yes. It’s almost certain that the artifact operates on the electromagnetic spectrum. Our lab sensors picked up a near-perfect sphere of short EM waves that interacted with everything that they came into contact with electronics-wise.”

“Is this a phenomenon that has been observed in the past?” Shawn asked. He felt like he was asking leading questions.

“Not exactly,” Dr. Sato said. “The interference has been internally referred to as ‘electromagnetic wave spheres.’”

“That’s a mouthful,” Shawn said. “So, these… electro-spheres, if you will… what are their implications?”

“It appears that the electromagnetic interference is a by-product of the artifact’s mechanisms. When it’s active, a detectable transient electromagnetic disturbance occurs.”

“An EMP,” Shawn whispered. “I thought that could only be produced from things like nuclear bombs and solar flares, requiring huge proportions of energy and radiation.”

“Theoretically,” Dr. Sato said. “However, we’re… how do you say it? We’re treading new ground with this discovery. It isn’t active when it isn’t in use or directly reacting to something. It seems to exhibit quasi-intelligence or at least very advanced systems that can react to stimuli.”

The word _stimuli_ bounced around Shawn’s mind for a minute. He didn’t like its implications.

“What happens if you try to match the frequency and strength of the electrospheres? Will they cancel each other out?”

“No,” Dr. Sato said. “Not in theory. Electromagnetic waves of equal strength would not affect each other; instead, they would simply pass through each other. However, the stronger and larger wave would prevail in counteracting one’s effects.”

Shawn thought about it for a bit. “It needs more testing,” he concluded.

“Correct,” Dr. Sato said. “Although, since the device is now inert, that might not be possible. All we can do is examine its structure.”

“Alright,” Shawn said. “What exactly is the structure of its core?”

“Its core,” Dr. Sato said, pulling up a diagram, “appears to be a densely-latticed crystalline structure produced by protozoa that can produce radiological signals between each other. Radiozoa is the proper term.”

“They’re radioactive?” Shawn asked.

“Not exactly,” Dr. Sato said. “It’s almost like they’re… talking to each other. Each signal reciprocates a response in tune. They occur rapidly, over a thousand conversations per second.”

Shawn squinted. “So, what, a brain? Are those neurons and axons?”

Dr. Sato smiled. “That’s not exactly my specialty, Doctor. I wouldn’t want to draw any conclusions prematurely.”

“I’m going to hazard a guess, then,” Shawn said. “I think it would be in your best interests to commission two teams: One that specializes in neurology and one that specializes in electromagnetism. What would you say to that, Dr. Sato?”

Dr. Sato only nodded. “I believe it’d be necessary if it’s possible.”

——

That night, Vickers ran into Jack in a pub in downtown Birmingham. Jack thought it was a coincidence. Vickers thought it was bad luck.

The bartender asked about Lincolnshire. Vickers’ eyes darted over to Jack, who was chatting up a waitress just to his right.

“He tell you about it?” Vickers asked. “I assume he told you I’m a soldier, then.”

“Sure,” the bartender said. “Sort of. I don’t mean to pry, but, y’know, there’s nothing on the news.”

“There probably won’t be any, either,” Vickers muttered. “If you don’t hear about it, then don’t worry about it.”

The bartender passed him a Guinness. “It’s on the house if you squeal,” he said.

Vickers sniggered and replaced the drink with a pound sterling and all the change in his pocket. “Not a chance,” he said. “What’s it to you, anyway?”

“Curiosity,” the bartender said. “And, your friend looks pretty shaken up.”

“I guess anyone would be,” Vickers said.

“Sounds ominous,” the bartender said. “And like big talk. You gonna back that up? Come on, why don’t you tell me?”

“I’m not _proud_ of what I saw,” Vickers said. “And I didn’t come all this way to talk about it.” He moved to another stool. He meant what he said, but there was another hitch: Vickers was a lightweight. After just one pint of beer, he’d be much more susceptible to speak from the heart, and right now it was quite heavy.

For now, he just drank.

Vickers didn’t fancy himself much of a pub-goer, not even for football. He went occasionally for a pint and a chance to just sit down and watch the telly. It’s what he elected to do tonight, too. Fish and chips, a poorly subtitled newsreel, ambient shouting and clinking of glasses loud enough to drown out his thoughts, and a pint of beer. Everything else could sod off.

Before he knew it, Jack slid over to him and started talking.

“Quiet,” Vickers said, “I’m eating fish.”

Jack snickered. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“I’m eating fish!” Vickers yelled with a mouthful.

“Is it good?”

“Yeah,” Vickers said. “Good stuff.”

“Did John give you a free pint?”

“He offered,” Vickers answered, and took a long swig.

Jack crossed his arms. “You didn’t take it?”

“Nope,” Vickers said, placing down the glass. “Tastes better when you pay for it.”

“With money rather than secrets,” Jack said.

“Why are you so interested?” Vickers snapped.

Jack shrugged. “It happened in my town. Shouldn’t I be entitled to know?”

“Not since you fled it,” Vickers said.

“You did, too,” Jack said. He was quick-witted. “If World War Three is about to fucking happen, I think I’d like to know about it. If something’s gonna go on the news about my hometown, I should be allowed to—”

“Nothing’s going to be on the news,” Vickers said. “Not for a while.”

“Why not?” Jack asked. “It’s the fucking Russians, isn’t it?”

“No,” Vickers hissed. “Think about it, you dolt. If it was the Russians, don’t you think there’d be broadcasts all over the place? Especially considering we won.”

“We _won?_ ” Jack asked. Vickers immediately regretted speaking. “I mean, you won?”

“Yeah,” Vickers murmured and returned to shoveling down fried fish. “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

“I’ll believe anything, at this point,” Jack said. “Tell me it was aliens, and—”

“It was aliens.”

Jack stopped. “You’re fucking with me.”

“You asked,” Vickers said.

“Okay, but you’re fucking with me. There’s no way that’s true.”

“That’s the easy version,” Vickers said. “The easiest way to understand it. Their tech is ridiculously advanced. They conceal themselves among us. They killed my friends. But they bleed and die, just like you and me.”

“Do they?” Jack asked. “Where are they from?”

“Some of them have lived here their whole lives,” Vickers said. “They’ve mastered the art of blending in.”

Jack just stared. “You’re right,” he said. “I don’t believe you.”

“Good,” Vickers said. “Now, piss off.”

The bartender returned. “One more, on the house. Sorry for bothering you earlier.” He slid over a small shot glass with a clear liquid that smelled to Vickers like vodka.

“What’s this, Smirnoff?” Vickers asked. He downed it in one go. It was definitely vodka.

“House blend. It’s called veritaserum.”

The vodka kicked Vickers’ throat. “What the fuck kind of a name is that?”

“It’s… appropriate,” Jack said.

Vickers shook his head. “You’ll make more money just selling Smirnoff.”

Some time passed. Despite downing a shot of vodka, Vickers felt that he was starting to sober up. The buzz had left him. He finished his plate.

“Why don’t you tell us what happened?” Jack said. “One more time. If it wasn’t aliens, then what?”

“I can’t tell you,” Vickers said, although the answer came to him readily. It almost slipped to his tongue. “I shouldn’t and I won’t.”

The music stopped. Some of the voices died down in the pub.

“Wizards, wasn’t it?” Jack asked.

“Huh? Yeah,” Vickers muttered. He stopped himself, then looked Jack up and down, and at the bartender, and at the twenty-odd patrons. They were all gazing upon him.

He drew his L9A1. It was met with two dozen wands.

“Don’t try it,” Vickers said. “Don’t fucking try it, or I swear I’ll take some of you down with me.”

“Relax,” Jack said. “We just want information.”

“Yeah,” Vickers said. “Then you’ll wipe my fucking brain. You’ll turn me into a human vegetable. A feral dog. Like what Lovejoy did to my friends. My squadmates.”

“Bullshit,” one yelled.

Another called from the back, “he’s lying!”

Horror lined Jack’s eyes. “He’s not lying,” he said, lowly, taking a pace toward Vickers.

Vickers flipped the safety off his gun and racked the slide. “Don’t fucking step closer to me.” Jack stopped. “What do you mean? How do you know I’m not lying?”

“Veritaserum,” Jack said. “Truth serum. We made you drink a potion that makes you speak the truth.”

“Fucking date rape drugs,” Vickers said. “‘S what I get for going to a pub on a Friday.”

“It’s a _truth_ potion, not a love potion, you moron.”

“Oh, so you have those too?” Vickers asked. “You know, I’m no lawyer, but that’s pretty fucking illegal.” His words bit at Jack. Jack winced. “Who _are_ you?”

“Just an interested party.”

Vickers didn’t care to hear more. These people were with Lovejoy, the man who led the raid on Waddington. The man who sucked Montag’s life out of his eyes.

“Where is Lovejoy?” Jack asked. “I assume you’re talking about Malcolm Lovejoy, the Obliviator.”

“He tried raiding RAF Waddington with some of his goons. We killed them, took him in.”

“So they know?” Jack asked. “They know about the flying car?”

“A lot of people know,” Vickers said. “A lot more than just me and my squad. A lot more than just the men at that base.”

“How many?”

Vickers tightened his hands around the pistol. He was tense. For once he didn’t know how to stop talking; they were taking advantage of him, and he was growing angrier for it. “I don’t have a fucking number.”

“ _Who_?” one asked from behind Jack.

“Wing commanders, squad leaders, everyone stationed at Waddington. Medics and surgeons brought in from all over the country for intensive trauma care, and a few Seabees brought in to help with reconstruction—US Navy, I mean. Everyone on coms in six surrounding districts is in the loop, too, including the nuclear second-strike launchers; I sounded the sabotage alarm. I saw an MI-6 agent and a CIA agent, too. They went to London, probably MARCOM.”

Half of that was speculation; he didn’t know if the sabotage alarm was actually wired to nuclear launch facilities, and didn’t care to find out. But all of it was information he’d rather not parted with.

“What’s MARCOM?” Jack asked.

“NATO Allied Maritime Command,” Vickers said. “US, UK, Germany, France, Canada, et cetera—most UN member states except Russia and China, all NATO member states. Central military command center. I’m sure the Pentagon and MOD are in a buzz about it, too.”

They started to lower their wands, starting with Jack and the bartender.

“It’s already out of hand,” Jack whispered. “We can’t stop it.”

“You kill me now,” Vickers said shakily, “and it won’t make a difference. Everyone will know. You’ll make a target out of yourselves. The Army will come looking for me and find evidence of a—”

“For fuck’s sakes, we weren’t going to kill you!” Jack yelled. “We were going to obliviate you.”

“That’s _worse!_ ” Vickers yelled. “What have I been trying to fucking tell you? My squadmates had _everything_ taken from them short of their lives—their memories, their skills, their ability to _speak_ and understand language. They’re gone. They’re fucking gone!”

Vickers took a step back as they gazed among each other. There was a split-second of confusion. Then they started bickering.

He felt the doorknob on his back and quickly reached back with his left hand while keeping his pistol leveled, twisted, and backed into it, spinning into a low sprint.

Some shouting ensued. Some of the wizards barked incantations. Flashes shot near him, just barely missing, and struck the other end of the nightly street. Vickers raised his pistol in the air and fired three rounds as he ran. A few patrons at the venue across the street yelped in surprise.


	5. For Queen and Country

August 26, 1992

“Raymond’s,” Downtown Birmingham

21:02

Jack swore and followed Tommy out the door. A firm hand pulled his shoulder and stopped him. John Bolt looked at him and shook his head. “Let him go,” John said. “We’ve drawn enough attention to ourselves.”

“Sure,” Jack said, shrugging, and stowing away his wand. He locked the door. “Fuzz will be here soon. They’ll have questions.” He looked around. Mary had joined them after listening in from the back of the room. She was good friends with Jack and one of John’s best. Bright, too. They needed to convene.

“Clear out!” John yelled. The Squad moved to the back rooms, kitchen, and out the back door. After a few minutes, it was just Jack, John, and Mary.

“Was that really true, what he said?” Mary asked. “About the Obliviators at Waddington?”

“It had to be,” John said. “The truth potion never fails.”

“It’s not the truth serum I’m concerned with,” Jack said. “It was his eyes. Haunted. He’s… seen some things. He would have told me that even if he wasn’t under the serum. It was dead true. And here I thought we were fucked up, murdering people or feeding them to beasts.”

“You’re gullible,” Mary said.

“Maybe,” Jack said. “But I’m not wrong. He’s a soldier. He acts like one.”

“Not anymore, though,” John said. “You said he deserted his post.”

“Yeah. Yeah, well, he might be going back now.”

Mary changed the subject. “He said they killed the Obliviator squad and took Lovejoy in. We have to contact whoever’s left there, tell them what he told us.”

“They won’t talk to us,” John muttered. “They won’t hear it from us.”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “When’s the last time the Ministry of Magic lent an ear to gangsters?”

“They did back in the war,” Mary said. “And they’ll listen to us again when we tell them there’s a new one coming.”

——

August 31, 1992

NATO Allied Maritime Command (MARCOM)

Northwood Headquarters, Hertfordshire

11:35

“Update me,” Lieutenant General Marigold said. He didn’t even bother with issuing formalities, speaking up before Morgan and Stowe were through the door to his office. “Have we got word back from Hokkaido?”

“Yes, General,” Morgan said, passing the documents over. They were basic internal analyses of the wand filled to the brim with photographs, diagrams, and theorycrafting. “I read over it before passing it on to you. They found that the wands work on the electromagnetic spectrum, emit short-wave EMP bursts, and are made of small, pseudo-silica crystalline, radiozoa structures.”

“In English, please?” Marigold asked without looking up to read the document. He tapped away at his desktop computer. “Er, pardon me. Have a seat, both of you.”

“They want a team specializing in neurology from MIT and a team specializing in electromagnetism from Stanford.”

“I’ll put the request through,” Marigold said, without skipping a beat. “Blank check. This needs to be done last week.”

“Very good, sir,” Stowe said. “Interrogations with Weasley have gone well. Not so much for Lovejoy.”

“Weasley and Lovejoy are the ones you apprehended last week, correct?” Marigold asked. “Which one conducted the raid on Waddington?”

“Lovejoy,” Stowe said. “He was in command of an ‘Obliviator squad.’”

“Right,” Marigold said. “We need to narrow down other contingents of the Obliviator. They’re our biggest threat.”

“Well,” Stowe said, “that’s the problem. Lovejoy won’t talk.”

“Make him talk,” Marigold said. “If half of what you witnessed at Waddington is true, then our lives depend on it.”

“Yes, sir,” Stowe said, “but there are a few complications. Lovejoy is inexplicably resilient to our interrogation techniques.”

“On top of that,” Morgan said, cutting in, “there’s some concern among the officers that he’ll give up false information. If that happens, he won’t get anywhere. Even a lie detector can be fooled.”

Marigold shook his head. “Just… get started. If he gives you a list of names, start there. Everyone wants in on this task force. You’re about to have all the resources in the world.” It sounded a little more literal than Marigold probably meant. “We need leads first. Do you have a list of everyone who was involved in the Waddington incident? All staff who were on-hand, and are still capable?”

“Yes, sir,” Stowe said.

“Bring them into the task force,” Marigold said. “They have first-hand experience with the wizards. I want you to put together a squad of elite soldiers who you can trust especially in handling… magic. Start with the Royal Army at Waddington and the Sabres you worked with in apprehending Weasley.”

“Yes, sir,” Stowe and Morgan said.

Somehow, this rubbed Morgan the wrong way. He felt like he was a soldier now—like he was answering directly to Marigold. At this point, he was so involved with Task Force Anglia that he was _in_ it.

“What about the car?” Marigold asked.

“We got the info from Ford,” Stowe said. “It corroborates Weasley’s story. It’s a sedan registered under his name with no special modifications. He… ‘enchanted’ it. However, there’s another complication. ‘Arthur Weasley’ is a paper person.”

“Come again?” Marigold said. He looked up this time, accepting a file from the MI-6 agent.

“It’s an alias. Dig hard enough and you find nothing really comes up. All of his documents are forged or mislabeled in some way.”

“He led a previous life?” Marigold thought out loud. “Maybe he was, uh, involved with the Provisional IRA. He from Ireland?”

“He says he’s not,” Stowe said.

“Sure. Task someone to do a more thorough background check. Shelf the papers for now; you’re done dealing with Weasley. I’m going to transfer him here so he can work closely with us.”

“Is that such a smart idea?” Morgan asked. “Respectfully, sir, we can’t trust him.”

“He’ll be under careful watch,” Marigold said. “He isn’t the biggest threat right now, and I’ll use him to our advantage for as long as possible.”

They nodded.

“One last thing before you go,” Marigold said. “When you’re done with your current assignment—which is to consolidate a team—you’ll be transferred to Hereford as your base of operations.”

“Not here in Northwood, sir?” Stowe asked.

“No,” Marigold said. “We’re clearing out a wing for all task force operations, but your group needs to be isolated. You’re better suited at a base with quick access to helicopter and cargo transport. Faster response time, and you’ll be stationed with the headquarters of the SAS. Your group will be on call at all times, but I’m told you’ll have resources from both CIA and MI-6 at your disposal.”

This operation was growing larger by the minute. “Understood,” Morgan said. Stowe nodded.

“That’s everything,” Marigold said. “Thanks. Dismissed.”

Morgan and Stowe rose and left.

——

Vickers didn’t feel safe anywhere anymore.

Everywhere he walked in the ghostly streets of Birmingham, he had one hand tucked under his smock. He tightened and loosened his grip around his L9A1. Every face he saw he avoided. He crept between buildings, dropped out of view of windows, and scurried away from cars. He found his way home after a few hours following the way he used to walk from school and everywhere else he’d go in his youth.

It was so deep in the night neither of his parents were up. He fiddled with his keys awkwardly with his left hand, careful not to let go of his gun with his right, until the front door was locked behind him and he’d almost tripped over his belongings he left earlier in the day.

He sank to the bottom of the door and finally relaxed.

Footsteps haunted him from the stairwell in front of him. He immediately drew toward the recessed light as it flipped on.

“Tommy?” Mom asked, looking down at him. She had her hand covering her eyes to shield herself from the light.

“Oh,” Vickers said, quickly stuffing his gun away. Hopefully she didn’t see that.

“You’re home awfully late,” Mom said. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” Vickers whispered, “just a rough night downtown.”

Mom came down the steps and sat down at the bottom step. “What’s happened?” she asked.

“A lot of crazy stuff’s happened,” Vickers said. “I came here on my libos to visit. But I wasn’t planning on going back to Waddington.”

“What are you saying?” Mom asked.

“I don’t know,” Vickers said. “After all, I don’t think that’s such a good idea anymore.”

“I don’t think anyone would,” Mom said. “You can’t just run away at the first sign of adversity. That’s not how we raised you.”

“I know, Mum,” Vickers said. “I know.”

“How long did you say you’d be staying here? ‘Til Monday?”

“Yeah,” Vickers said.

“Let’s talk about it tomorrow,” Mom said. “You should get some sleep.”

Vickers agreed and climbed upstairs to his old bedroom and fell into a shallow, dreamless sleep. The next morning came seconds later. Both Mom and Dad were already up, brewing tea for everyone.

Vickers, however, struggled to rise. He had fallen asleep in his service uniform—and his smock. He fished off his uniform and showered, putting on a fresh change of clothes from his bag, and hesitated before the door. His L9A1 was on his dresser. He didn’t feel comfortable leaving without it—and he didn’t feel right wearing it in the house.

“I have to keep my weapon on me at all times now,” he said, lying cheaply through his teeth, and shifted in his seat as he settled in for lunch.

“Strange,” Dad said. “Things must have changed a lot since I was in the Army.”

“A bit,” Vickers said. He wasn’t even issued the L9A1; ownership of pistols was reserved for officers, but when he requested it for personal safety off-duty, pulling a few strings along the way, a requisition was cleared for him. He never mentioned that to Mom or Dad.

Lunch went smoothly. Dad didn’t ask about the conversation Vickers had with Mom the night before.

For a moment, Vickers thought nothing of it—until he heard the robins singing. The window to the backyard was wide open. Furry Ivan was silently resting on the porch on the other side of the sliding door, basking in the noon sunlight. He had settled on the railing near his claw marks in the wood in the corner of the land he’d wrestled away from Dad in a year-long battle of wits between man and gray tabby. Hues of gold and green flowed in through the windows, leaving the kitchen table in a font of beautiful light he’d never appreciated before.

The song of a robin was something of a sequestered beauty—one you wouldn’t grow to appreciate until you had a near-death experience twice in a month and wanted to just hide and pretend it would all go away. Yet in its absence, Vickers realized that it was never going to go away. The world was changing and there was nothing he could do about it.

He was running from a threat that was strangling the country—and no one knew it yet.

The wizards were in Birmingham too. There were no thoughts on who they were or what they wanted, though. They didn’t seem like the Obliviators.

The wizards were in Birmingham too.

He wasn’t safe here. No one was.

Vickers’ hand balled into a fist. He thought hard about what he was going to do, if anything. There were very few choices left. He could hide here and bide his time as the world went to shit—leave the Army behind, find a new life? No, they’d come for him. He’d be a deserter. Leave everything behind? Never come back to see his parents, or at least just go into hiding with them?

No. They would never agree to that. They would never want that, not for him and not for themselves.

Vickers thought about what Dad would do. The old man would probably have answered the call. He would’ve marched straight back, past the sergeants, the lieutenants, and the captains, and found the first commando and said, “I want in on this.”

Vickers’ other hand balled into a fist, too. He looked down. The robins fell silent. They scattered as Furry Ivan woke up and pounced on the feeder. Mom clambered out the door and yelled at Ivan, scooping him up and bringing him back into the house.

He didn’t want to hear the birds sing if it meant Mom, Dad, and Furry Ivan were to suffer. He didn’t want to hide if it meant anything that happened from here on was his fault. Actually, he didn’t want to hide at all. Not anymore. He knew what he needed to do. For Queen and Country, and for Mom and Dad, and for the robins, and for Furry Ivan.

“So, any plans this weekend?” Dad asked, turning his head away from the outside spectacle with an expired grin.

“Hm?” Vickers hummed, looking up. His muscles, tensed up, relaxed. He remembered to breathe again. “No, well… actually, I think I might be headed back for Waddington early. Tomorrow, instead, if you can give me a ride. I know it’s a lot to ask, I just—”

Dad smiled. It was a proud, knowing one. “Of course,” he said.

——

It was two in the morning. A waxing crescent glowed softly over Downtown, making it one of the darker nights. It worked out in his favor. Vickers waited in the darkest alley he could find nearby, watching the pub from under a cloak of night. It had been two full hours since the barkeep closed up and the whole place joined the row of unlit storefronts.

He walked around the empty block until he was behind the building and had good eyes on the back door. Vickers pulled the hood up and walked over to it, relieved to see that it had a glass window that, if broken, could be used to access the door handle.

He thought for a moment about how he would break the glass without cutting himself. He grabbed his pistol, making sure the safety was still on as he turned it and gripped the slide, and carefully tapped the glass with the bottom of the magwell repeatedly. It made loud pinging noises that echoed along the walls of the alley behind him. He began to hit the glass harder.

For a while, that’s all it made. Then it produced a crack. The crack expanded with each tap. Then it exploded inward. Vickers recoiled his hand back as shards dropped and missed his gun, and he checked it. No lacerations. No severed arteries. He was fine.

He knocked the loose, triangular shards of glass out of the top with his pistol, reached in with his right hand, and unlocked the door. He flipped on his flashlight, holding it in his left hand and resting his gun hand on it, stalking into the kitchen.

The kitchen was like any other in a Birmingham restaurant—cramped and not particularly clean.  
He raided the office and looked through the drawers.

The bottom drawers were filled to the brim with unmarked, taped down packages of powdered sugar. Upon a second glance, Vickers realized it wasn’t powdered sugar at all.

“Okay,” he whispered, slamming it shut and making a mental note not to leave fingerprints anywhere he didn’t absolutely need to.

Two possibilities laid themselves before Vickers: either (1) the “wizarding world,” so to speak, had very different social mores than the rest of humanity; or (2) the wizards he encountered in this bar last night were thugs.

Anyone involved with the destruction of James Montag’s mind and life was a thug. Anyone who’d do it again was a monster—an entity separate from humanity. Alien. It didn’t matter who they thought they were.

Finally, he found the barkeep’s recipe book. He found all kinds of concoctions with wild labels— _Rattlesnake blend_ , _Robin Cooper_ , _Liquid Louise_ , _Guinness and Egg,_ _Whiskey Sour, Vodka and Raspberry._

Were they actually selling this to human patrons? They all sounded horrible, but not very much like truth serum.

He was about to throw the recipe book away when he glanced at the last page.

_House Blend_ . _One part vodka, one eighth part vermouth, half one fl. oz veritaserum._

_Bingo_ , Vickers thought. He slipped and kicked his boot into something under the drawer. It was a lockbox, but it wasn’t locked. It slid out under it and bounced off the wall, appearing at his feet, and he opened it out of curiosity—mainly because he was stupid and had already forgotten his new rule about fingerprints, which he silently reminded himself of after the fact. “Bollocks,” he hissed.

Inside it was a small walnut wand, just like the ones the thugs in this bar used. Just like the ones the Obliviators used.

He closed the lockbox and stuffed it into his bag. He left the office shut behind him and all of its contents exactly how he found it.

The bar itself had all the ingredients in various cabinets under the sink. He got looking. It didn’t take long to find the drinks and mixes. He saw one that said _HOUSE BLEND_ , and a date, and next to it was a bottle of the vodka, vermouth, and a small vial containing a clear liquid labeled _veritaserum_.

_It’s a fucking knockout_ , Vickers thought, as he snatched it and checked for anything else he might want to see.

There was nothing. He fled out the back door and disappeared into the night. He was gone without a trace.

——

September 1, 1992

RAF Waddington, Lincolnshire

18:19

After Dad dropped him off, Vickers returned to the barracks and unpacked his things. Of the men left in his squad, no one seemed to notice he was gone. It didn’t matter anyway.

Once he was squared away and in uniform, he picked up the veritaserum vial and wand and headed straight for ISTAR. He stopped halfway, though, when he noticed the two suits he recognized from the battle and flagged them down.

“Yes?” the CIA agent asked. “Can we help you?”

“I can help you,” Vickers said. He presented the lockbox and the vial. “I snagged these off a wizard hideout in Birmingham.”

The CIA agent stopped, and so did the MI-6 officer. They traded a glance.

“Run that by me again,” the officer said.

Vickers told them everything right where they stood. He told them about the car ride, about Jack, about the standoff in the pub, and the truth serum and the wand.

“Stop me if I’m wrong,” the CIA agent said, “but I think I recognize you. You were one of the soldiers on guard duty during the attack, right?”

“That’s right. Corporal Vickers, at your service.”

They exchanged another look. “Come with me,” the MI-6 officer said.

Vickers followed them to an empty briefing room in the command center.

“Scott Morgan,” the CIA officer said to introduce himself. “This is Harlan Stowe. Tell us everything you know about that substance, the wand, and your encounter.”

Vickers stiffened. “The wand is their means of producing magical spells,” he said. “They use it functionally identically to guns, like weapons they can leverage threats over someone with, or as almost multi-tools. I’ve seen them be used to wipe memories, summon fireballs, and split objects in half.

“In that vial is something called _veritaserum_. It’s a truth serum used by the wizards to extract confessions out of people. They spiked one of my drinks and used it on me to find out about the scope of the operations expanding from Waddington.”

“You talked?” Morgan asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Er, yes, sir,” Vickers said. “I tried not to, I swear. But I couldn’t resist the drug. I couldn’t even decline to answer their questions.”

“How much do they know?” Stowe asked.

“Everything I know,” Vickers said. “Everything’s hush-hush, so I don’t know any details, but, with all due respect, you haven’t been keeping _everything_ a secret.”

Morgan stroked his chin. “I suppose not,” he said. “You said they’re affiliated with Lovejoy?”

“They know of him. I don’t believe they’re with the Obliviators. I think they’re gangsters.”

“Wizards and gangsters? What makes you so sure?”

“I was lured into their base of operations, which is using a restaurant that doesn’t get much business as a cover up. Their menu isn’t very attractive, and very few ‘outsiders’ like their drinks enough to be regulars. I’m a Birmingham native and I’ve never heard of anyone who had dinner there twice, but it’s been around for ages. They’d need a secondary source of profits, considering their weekend turnout was shit.”

Stowe looked impressed, raising his eyebrows. “That’s… observant of you.”

“I also found at least ten kilograms of coke in the office.”

Morgan snickered. “Get this guy tested and put him on the squad,” he murmured.

“You’re joking,” Stowe said.

“You’re joking?” Vickers said.

Morgan’s expression changed. “That’s… that’s going to have to be a discussion for another time.”

“If it makes no difference to you,” Vickers said, “I want to contribute every way I can to the operations expanding outward from Waddington and Northwood.”

Morgan smiled. It seemed genuine. “We could use someone like you. But for now, we have to process this information. Let’s get back to it,” he said. “I’ll see if I can get a raid cleared with Marigold. If it is, you’ll be on the secondary team.”

Stowe scowled, but said no more.

“Yes, sir,” Vickers said. He almost felt giddy with pride.

——

The van circled the block by Raymond’s three times before settling down across the street for an hour. Mary noticed it first before letting Jack know.

“What of it?” Jack asked.

“It’s a bit suspect,” Mary said. “Either they’re really lost, or they’re interested in us.”

“How do you know it’s not the next place over?” Jack asked.

Mary raised an eyebrow. Point taken.

Jack went to the office and notified Raymond. He looked up, fury raging in his eyes.

“What is it, boss?”

“I can’t find my wand,” Raymond said. “I think they took it.”

“Who, the guy that broke in last weekend?” Jack asked. “No way. There’s no way, unless—” he hesitated. A thought occurred to him simultaneously.

“What’s wrong?” Raymond asked.

Jack left the office and squeezed past John in the bar. He opened the bottom cabinet and rifled through the mixed drinks. The veritaserum was missing.

“John,” Jack said, slowly, “you didn’t misplace the house blend, did you?”

“No,” John said. “Why do you ask?”

Jack pointed to the empty space next to the vodka bottle. John swore.

“Tommy,” Jack whispered. “It was that kid Tommy.”

He told Mary. She fumed at his words, stepping outside without another sound, into the mid-afternoon sunlight.

Jack opened the door after her, and John followed. “Where are you going?” Jack yelled.

“To settle this!” Mary shouted back. She approached the van, wand leveled, and summoned a Killing Curse. Jack recognized it from the green flash that emitted from the tip and connected with the driver, killing him instantly through the glass. His head slumped down onto the wheel and sounded the horn.

The passenger jumped out of the car and opened fire with a British military rifle, dropping her like a sack of bricks in a puddle of her own blood.

John ran out the door. “Wait!” Jack yelled, and jumped back in.

Soldiers sealed up in camouflaged suits, helmets, and gas masks emerged from nearby alleys and across the street. They shouted John down, and when he swung his wand around, they cut him down with rifle fire.

Jack sprinted back as two grenade shells smashed through the glass and dispensed a semi-opaque cloud of smoke. As he backed up, some of the patrons—regulars, who were indeed with Raymond’s gang—began to cough and choke and eject spittle, collapsing on the floor or running back with him.

“Gas!” Jack yelled. “Get out of here!” He ran to the kitchen and warned the rest of the crew and ran out the back door.

Six soldiers were waiting for him. He procured his wand and waved at them. “Incendio!” he belted. A stream of fire exploded out of the wand toward them, causing all of them to stammer and flinch.

“Flamethrower!” one of them yelled. “Get back!”

Jack ran. He ran as far and as fast as he could, ducking into a few alleys and using the Killing Curse on soldiers who tried to stop him, huffing and panting and wheezing until he rounded one last corner into a shaded alley and, with all his built-up momentum, crashed straight into Tommy Vickers’ bayonet.

——

September 5, 1992

Downtown Birmingham

15:00

Zero hour.

Vickers wrapped the Bowman C2 around his head and switched on the channel. “All teams, check in,” he said. Both the primary and the secondary squads reported in. “We’re starting the operation.”

“That’s the place?” Stowe asked, peeking to the front of the van, eyeing up Raymond’s. “It doesn’t look like much.”

“I guess that’s the point,” Vickers said.

Some commotion occurred at the front door of the facade. The other establishments on the block had already been approached and quietly evacuated in over the last hour. The patrons and owners were ushered out and moved two blocks over without explanation.

“All teams, gas masks on,” Vickers ordered. “NBC Level Four protection.” He went over the briefing again. “The building has a simple layout. The bar and restaurant is in the front house room, the kitchen’s in the back, and the office and restrooms are in between. There are two storerooms and large pantries where refrigeration equipment is—”

A bright green flash phased through the glass and struck the driver. He slumped over and landed on the steering wheel. The horn blew.

Sergeant Meyers jumped out of the car and opened fire with his L85.

“Go, go! Team One, get in there!” Vickers yelled.

“Vickers,” Stowe ordered, “I’ll handle coms from here. Get to Team Two and support.”

Vickers nodded, got up, tore off the Bowman C2, and assembled his MOPP gear as he climbed out of the van. He slid the door shut behind him and affixed the bayonet on his L85, hanged a right into the nearest alley, and met up with the backup squad of Sabres.

Lieutenant Recker turned to him. “Vickers, take point on the corner.”

Vickers got up to the corner and waited. More gunfire rang out in the distance, and then it fell silent. There were some flashes down the corridor. Vickers was tempted to peek the corner, but he waited instead.

A radio call buzzed in Recker’s ear. “You’ve got one coming your way, Vickers,” he said. “Get ready.”

Vickers backed up from the corner, preparing to lunge as the footsteps grew closer, until suddenly a figure wielding a wand—in fact, it was Jack—rounded it at full speed, crashing straight into Vickers.

Vickers thrusted the bayonet into Jack’s chest, instantly rupturing a lung. Before Jack could raise his wand and pathetically attempt an incantation, Vickers slid the bayonet out of his chest, stabbed again, and two more times before swatting the wand out of Jack’s hand with the blade itself, slicing an artery in Jack’s wrist in the process.

Jack was on the ground in a heap, dead in seconds. Vickers looked down for only a second to make sure he was dead, and picked up the wand and secured it to his kit.

Recker and a pair of gunners passed Vickers, fanning out in the alley behind the storefronts, and watched for more activity. They called out two runners and opened fire. Weapon reports bounced off the acoustics of the alley and nearly deafened Vickers.

Vickers sliced the corner with his gunsight and joined in, lining up his Elcan sight with a few silhouettes armed with wands. Green flashes whizzed by like tracer rounds, harmlessly dissipating into the walls nearby. He gunned them down, two shots in each target’s center mass.

“Go, go!” he yelled, waving ahead. The rest of the squad passed him and prepared to clean house.

The soldiers arrested everyone in the building in minutes. They began sweeping the place.

Vickers made his way in once the back house was clear. “Secure any wands you find,” he said. “Don’t let them say any incantations. And if you see anything with Latin written on it, uh, probably don’t touch it without Level Four PPE.”

——

August 31, 1992

USS _John F. Kennedy_ (CVA-67), Persian Gulf

17:00

_“Now hear this,”_ the PA called. The entire mess came to a standstill. All of the men halted and gazed up expectantly. _“The captain will address all hands.”_

_“This is the captain,”_ said Captain McGraw. _“I know many of you were curious about the nature of our redeployment from our standard operations in the Gulf. Air elements, especially, have noticed the reduction in sorties in the last six hours. This has come unexpectedly and without precedent._

_“Six hours ago, the USS_ John F. Kennedy _and her fleet received emergency orders from NATO MARCOM—that is, the maritime headquarters in England. An all-hands alert to redeploy to Britain and to be fully combat ready. As such, we will be returning through Suez and resupplying at Gibraltar before continuing straight for Devonport. I cannot tell you any more than this. I cannot tell you any details of the disturbance that requires the operation of our whole fleet, nor the kind of activity you should expect. However, this was not a drill or test; this is the real deal. In the last two years we faced the might of the Iraqi military and her allies. We fought hard to push them back. You’ve shown me that the crew of the Big John is one I ought to be proud of. But now we’ve been recalled to MARCOM’s headquarters. NATO MARCOM is the last line of naval defense for the Atlantic. England is the last line of defense._

_“This might amount to nothing, but I suspect that’s not the case—we were ordered to redeploy with the full knowledge in consideration that a journey to Devonport would take almost a month; we wouldn’t be needed anywhere but the Gulf if it wasn’t a monumentally important task. I want you all ready for anything. Big John is a good ship. She’s never failed us before and she won’t now. We’ll get through this together, side by side, as we always have.”_


	6. The Video Game War

September 11, 1992

Khafji, Saudi Arabia

23:45

Lady Luck had her way with Azeban’s cell. Republican Guard forces had reported that the American carrier group spearheading the forces preparing to make the final push to drive her men back to Kuwait, indeed, left the Gulf for good. It was corroborated by the reduced frequency of Tomcats flying overhead — in fact, she hadn’t seen any since last month — and the significantly reduced frequency of airstrikes over Basrah. She wasn’t sure why, but she had a window of opportunity.

They’d raided an American supply cache six weeks prior in Basrah. It was chock full of equipment they could use: 5.56mm ammunition and STANAG magazines, which extended the lifespan of their stolen M16 rifles; about a hundred gallons of diesel; a small stockade of military rations; but most importantly, enough AN/PVS-7s to equip a company of infantry, and batteries to support a service life of several days if not weeks.

They had found a stockpile of second-generation night vision apparatuses. And now it was theirs.

She rose above the ridgeline under cover of night and took a long breath of the chilly, desert air. This war had gone on long enough; two years too long. It was time to turn the tide. Her raiders looked up from where they waited, scouting the perimeter of the American aerodrome.

“The time is almost upon us,” she said. “You must remember — the priority is the airfield. Before the main force advances, we have to disable enemy aircraft without destroying infrastructure. If they have air power, it’s over. It’ll be the first battle of Khafji all over again.”

Her men grunted in agreement. A few prayed to their Allah in the brief silence.

“We move swiftly. We take out their jets, their AC-130, and their Apaches. Then we take out their armor and ammo stockpiles. We do it right, we’ll be out before we’re even spotted.”

One looked up at her. “What’s the plan if we’re compromised?”

“Try not to get killed,” Azeban said. “And expedite.” She checked her flare gun. “I’ll launch a flare when it’s time, signalling the tank assault. If all’s going well, then they should be in position… less than a kilometer away.”

“Do you have explosives?” another asked. “We have everything we need, and some extra.”

“I don’t need them,” Azeban said, reflexively resting her right hand on her belt, wrapping her fingers around the wand. “Keep them for yourself.”

They nodded knowingly. “May God’s grace be with you,” he said, in his own tongue.

The cell approached the base over the course of two hours. They transitioned from low crawls to low, crouched walking and back to avoid as many lines of sight that Azeban could identify. They mostly had to avoid the watchtowers. With night vision, the enemy could see almost as clearly as day—however, the moon was not out tonight. Not enough to produce enough light to be amplified by night vision goggles.

The Americans got around this problem by using infrared illuminators to light up most of the area. IR illuminators could be picked up and amplified by night vision devices, but not the naked eye. Azeban pulled up her PVS-7 as she halted by a ridge and flicked them on, using them like binoculars.

Against total darkness, six beams of green and white energy flowed out like spotlights on the ground. Those were the IR illuminators. They created several blind spots, one of which was convenient enough for them to pass through.

“Trust me,” she whispered, and stepped out of her cover and into one of the blind spots. She switched off her night vision and tiptoed in the pitch black.

They silently made the last gap between the uneven desert sands and the outer gabion of the base.

With a hiss under her breath summoning a spell, Azeban boosted her men over the gabion. They landed gracefully on the other side of the wire.

She followed.

“Split up,” she whispered. “Don’t alert anyone.”

Her men dispersed. Azeban went adjacent to the runway toward the first hangar.

The first hangar was populated only with specialists and maintenance crews working on four F-16s and a couple F-117 Nighthawks. She could see through a maintenance door that was left open on the right side of the building.

She memorized their locations and moved on to the next hangar. One B-1 Lancer. The other slots were missing their fighters, likely on sortie.

She continued in the silence of the night until she was past six hangars in total. She had visualized each aircraft’s location and committed them to memory: each individual plane’s dimensions, fuel reserves, ammunition, and other combustible materials; oil and fuel tanks she could simply sniff out from the stench of kerosene; and proximity to the armory.

Azeban waited at the end of the airfield and scouted out most of the other aircraft resting on the tarmac. Easy pickings — by the end, she had twenty targets.

Two hours passed by the time she’d found her way back to the wire, where they originally set out. Her men had returned, ready to go.

“Charges are set,” the squad leader said.

“Good,” Azeban said. They crossed the wire the same way they’d entered and retreated a good distance.

“And the aircraft?”

“How many did you set charges on?” Azeban asked.

“Six Apaches and the AC-130,” he said. “We only had enough for the priority targets.”

“Good,” Azeban said. She picked up her wand and did some calculations. “Detonate.”

They did so. Explosions rocked the entire base — the barracks, the ammunition stockpile, the helicopters, the gunship, and the motorpool — erupted in flames. Smoke billowed into the black sky, turning it darker than an umbral shadow.

Without another word, Azeban summoned an explosive spell. Twenty bolts of light flashed from the tip of her wand and went to work. They wisped over the gabion and into the hangars and the tarmac, striking her targets and igniting the fuel tanks and explosives until they went nearly deaf.

“Time to go,” Azeban said. She re-engaged her night vision and watched the erratic searchlights light up the region, leading her men back to safety.

She launched the flare from the sand dune, The assault began.

——

The Gulf War is a lesson in the use of technology and strategies best suited for them. The Iraqi military, when initially invading Kuwait, had the fourth largest standing army in the world. It was a formidable foe to stand up to the United States and her coalition forces. The military might of the Iraqi military was, in theory, absolutely capable of leaving the coalition forces with a bloody nose had they not played their cards right.

It is true that the USAF was likely the strongest air force in the world alone, and the US Navy was equally as powerful. It is also true that the USAF had a multitude of technologies at their disposal, including the premier stealth fighter, the F-117 Nighthawk, accessible night vision, and an M1A1 Abrams platform recently upgraded with thermal imaging. However, the most important factor of the war was not these technologies; rather, it was how they were used.

Conventionally, the Iraqi military could have held its own against the Americans for quite a prolonged fight using the ZSU-23-4 Shilka, a self-propelled anti-aircraft tank, and a multitude of Soviet-made surface-to-air missiles. On any battlespace these are significant threats. Additionally, the only countermeasures the Americans really had were stealth and speed; the F-117s were in limited but effective supply, and the Iraqis had time to prepare.

The opening battles of the Gulf War were not, however, conventional.

On the first days, the USAF and Army Air Corps conducted only night raids, combining the stealth of the F-117 Nighthawk and the speed of the elite Wild Weasels, capable of dispatching radar devices with anti-radiation missiles, to disable anti-aircraft defenses, creating temporary blind spots through which bombers could proceed to their targets.

It was only after the USAF had established air superiority that the ground forces were deployed. With ground forces at the front line, they were supported by Apaches.

The AH-64 Apache Longbow was developed primarily as a Soviet tank hunter. It sported some of the most intelligent targeting systems of the century, which helped with the use of AGM-114 Hellfire missiles and its chin-mounted 30mm gun. These weapons could be used at extreme long range as stand-off weapons, making them perfect for scoping out the remaining Shilkas and T-72s that the Iraqi military had dug into the sand.

The tactic of digging your tank chassis into the sand dates back to the Second World War. It was a useful tactic for reducing the profile, making you a much harder target to acquire and hit. However, the Iraqis did not take into account the fact that the M1A1 Abrams had its optics upgraded and, as a result, was not only able to acquire targets simply by their heat signatures but hit them accurately up to range. Due to the employment of night optics and thermals during night operations, the Americans had a powerful advantage on the ground.

It didn’t take long for the Iraqi resistance to crumble under the weight of coalition forces after that. There was fear that Saddam would be able to corral the neighboring powers — Iran, Syra, Jordan, Lebanon — into an alliance that could stand up to the coalition’s forces. However, these fears quickly dissipated as the reactions to the war were generally unfavorable and Saudi Arabia and Egypt joined the cause, each deterring the factor of retaliation even more. Many of the UN’s member states voted toward this war once the UNSC passed Resolution 678, an ultimatum directed to Iraq to end the fighting in Kuwait before war broke out; the world’s eyes, under the unifying idea of collective security, were scrying the Persian Gulf watchfully. The actions of each nation in this conflict would have consequences that would outlive their denizens. The citizens of the world were watching through screens — in fact, the conflict was so well documented it earned the name “the video game war” in common Western parlance — from Khafji all the way to Baghdad.

That changed in 1991, toward what would have been the end of the war. Syria, Jordan, and Lebanon unexpectedly joined the Iraqis. No one anticipated it. For all intents and purposes, it shouldn’t have happened. This is instead because the Wizarding World intervened.

With them and a cabal of wizards, they slowly turned the tide and irrevocably changed history. Eventually, as each day wore on, and the death toll of coalition forces grew higher, the war grew wildly unpopular. To the Americans and the French, it was Vietnam all over again. To the British, they were backing the wrong horse. For Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, and Egypt, it was a crusade.

Crusaders on both sides fought harder and the war grew bloodier by the day. The Iraqi military might was rejuvenated with the support of the Anti-Coalition Front. Instead of using old tactics that brought defeat to the Iraqis earlier in the war, the Syrians employed new tactics that were based on American strategies seen elsewhere. They focused primarily on the air power, striking strategic naval bases and airfields, and rapidly upscaling their forces’ arsenal by fighting asymmetrically and stealing equipment that could later be used against the American and British forces.

The use of night vision by the Iraqis and magic by the wizards quickly turned the war around and pushed coalition forces out of Baghdad and even into Kuwait.

Strangely, the coalition found itself on its last legs by August of 1992. The USS _John F. Kennedy_ , the strategic cornerstone of a counteroffensive planned for the winter solstice, was suddenly recalled to redeployment in England, jeopardizing the upcoming Operation Redshift. Despite this setback and vacuum of military air power in the region, the coalition leadership decided to go through with Operation Redshift two months early with inadequate equipment, supplies, and supports — and cost the coalition forces the war.

The American forces pushed too hard with poor intelligence, preparation, and clear goals that would grant them long-term success. Worse still, without the previously enjoyed US Naval presence and significantly withered US Air Force operations in desperate need of resupply, they nearly totally lost air superiority. They suffered heavy losses. The Gulf War was all but over by winter. Before the end of March 1993, a cease-fire was signed by the leading powers of coalition and the ACF. The conflict ended, and the western UN powers quickly refocused their efforts toward restabilizing Yugoslavia.

Saddam’s forces, who had now impregnated the borders of Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, and even his new allies in Syria and Jordan, did not recede. Almost immediately following the Gulf War came ethnic cleansings. The Republican Guard persecuted Kurdish, Turkomen, Christian, Armenian, Bedouin, and Jewish minorities. Even worse — the Iraqi government continued to ignore IAEA demands for inspections and jump-started its nuclear program.

Israel promptly stirred up challenges against the UN’s wishes to avoid another destructive war. The world tilted on its axis, falling to entropy and instability.

This was all part of the plan.

The Wizarding World had intervened for these ends — or, more accurately, an ancient faction that sought to subvert humanity to keep its actions in check. Predictable. It was an order that had sought to keep the establishments of kings, dictators, and divinely ordained sovereigns; individuals who could be monitored and, if need be, deadheaded. Men who feared the power of democracy in the hands of a republic such as the United States of America, Great Britain, France, Germany… who, in time, felt the only way to protect humanity was to subjugate it, attempted to overthrow the new world order.

It started with nationalism and socialism. The only way to subvert these countries was to reinvigorate their natural enemies. Europe saw the rise of nationalism in the early twentieth century, rooting back to seeds planted as early as the beginning of industrialism, pruned and watered by carefully attentive and highly secretive wizards. Extreme beliefs would drive people to extreme acts — and as a direct reaction to exploitative and destructive capitalist practices of the industrial revolution, socialism became prominent as well.

Otto von Bismarck’s ability to unify Germany at the turn of the century, as well as his prowess with diplomacy and national growth, was to be commended. It died with him, and so did the entire European system of order. The world stage had already set itself for a great war — one that no one could have anticipated to be so bloody, so destructive, and the Wizarding World needed only to ignite the kindlings.

It wasn’t hard. The recipe for war was already there: great national pride between countries, border disputes, difficult and poorly drafted treaties with unlikely empires allying with one another creating an interconnected web of promises of violence — a powder keg. The only spark that was needed was a culturally deaf parade, an Archduke, and a hateful few Serbian nationalists.

The rest is history.

The goal was not the first world war — it was the quiet hatred that came after. The silence of devastation. The fuel for an empowered, enriched, and vindicated country; a generation fueled by loss and a lust for revenge.

The goal was a fully-rejuvenated and motivated Nazi Germany and fascist powers — Italy, Spain, Japan — that contended with the former Entente. The ideals and political beliefs of the Nazis themselves were inconsequential to the wizards; all that mattered was that Adolf Hitler held the crux of German power, and that he could be watched more easily. How do you decapitate the leadership of a democracy when the commander-in-chief is rotated out every four years? How do you facilitate change when everyone has a vote?

When that plan failed — and the Allies defeated the Nazis and the Japanese — the Wizarding World turned to communism. The Iron Curtain was their last chance to enact the final covenant of the Order. But when the Soviet Union collapsed, at the end of a shallow decline that began with the death of Joseph Stalin in 1951, and most of its state-socialist neighbors with it, the wizards had two options left: to continue down this path and attempt to support an increasingly expansionist China, or attempt a new approach and sow discord throughout Yugoslavia, the Persian Gulf, Central America, and Africa — instead subverting the Western utopia asymmetrically, and crippling their ability to enact proactive policies. This would even affect the United States, whose very existence is a mark of shame upon wizards — the greatest failure of the Order. Not only did they fail to contain the continental revolutionaries in 1776, but again in 1812.

Even still, it had cost them so little to accomplish so much.

The Wizarding World had, for the most part, failed its secondary objective — that being the will of the Order to keep the muggle world “in check,” as long and as comfortably as it could — but not its first. The first objective was as important as breathing. The prime directive was to maintain secrecy, and keep the knowledge of magic out of the sullied, blood-stained hands of humanity. If the muggles knew they were being subverted — that they were being suppressed, and manipulated into war after war, genocide after genocide, plague after plague — there was no telling what they would do simply for retribution, simply for justice. So it was imperative to remain in the shadows.

How hard could that be?


	7. All Ends Are Beginnings

The chamber was ice-cold and pitch-black. Wulf approached the cold storage device, his shoes tapping against the metallic floor and reverberating throughout the featureless, circular room. He nodded to Sergeant Ory. “Seal me in,” he said.

“Last chance, sir,” Ory said. “Are you sure about this? You know what those things are capable of. If this doesn’t work...”

“All the same,” Wulf said.

Ory shook his head, stepped out of the chamber, and sealed the airlock shut. Emergency lights switched on. Klaxons blared and the pressurization alarm sounded.

Inside the cold storage device — in suspended animation — awaited an abomination. It was a ghostly, otherworldly figure, suspended by nothing short of heavy, controlled scalar suppression stabilized only by extreme-cold temperature of a cryonic cold storage capsule. The abomination, comatose and unconscious, waited to be reanimated. It was a wraith. A ghoul that, were it not for the suppressors, could levitate and even circumvent physical barriers. A monster from the Wizarding World — one that even the wizards feared and found to be unkillable. A Dementor.

The cold storage device hissed and depressurized. The scalar suppressors shut off, and almost immediately the Dementor came to life.

Wulf was immediately surrounded by dread. A feeling of oppressive darkness he had not felt in some time, but was all-too-familiar with nonetheless. It only intensified as the Dementor rose from its prison cell.

He knew this one.

He could hear her screams. The last thing Maria ever said. His child sister, calling out for her mother. Her tight grasp on him, which slowly faded and loosened. Her eyes, sharp as ever — green as his own, eyes that he missed to this day — dilated and flattened. Her arms fell to the floor and she stared blankly, straight away, and the Dementor was gone.

Maria died three days later of dehydration. For three days she didn’t speak, didn’t drink, didn’t eat. She responded to nothing — not even physical trauma. Her eyes were flat and empty, almost unblinking. Her mind was blank. Inactive, until it decayed and died.

Her soul was still in this Dementor. Somewhere.

The Dementor impressed dejection to Wulf. It propelled reminders of the life she couldn’t have because of its own actions. It was boasting.

Wulf faded. Sometimes he felt he wanted nothing to do with a world with such acts. He’d rather be swallowed up — or, perhaps, given a chance to reunite with his sister within this Dementor. That was a sweet notion.

He rejected it.

He hated this thing. He would never become a part of it — he’d sooner destroy it, or die himself. Wulf tightened the grip on his pistol, but feared it wouldn’t do him any good.

_You’ll suffer with me. With her._

“No,” Wulf whispered. “You’ve taken enough. Enough from me, from my sister… from humanity. Wither and die.”

_You cannot win._

The Dementor was somewhat right. Hatred wasn’t enough to resist the soul-sucking kiss. No — you needed something else.

“I can,” Wulf whispered. “I will.”

_You’ve already lost._

Wulf shuddered. He missed Maria dearly. Something screamed inside after her. _Bring her back_ , he shouted wordlessly. _Bring her back to this world, you monster!_

The universe felt to spin around him. Visions of the past flickered behind his eyes. He smelled ozone. He tasted burnt carbon. He felt fire.

“I am Wulf,” he whispered.

_You are no one._

Wulf heard a distant, mountain howl. Saw the darkness over Chosin. Tracers belted over the hills. Rockets howled in the distance. Marines piled bodies of their comrades on top of sandbags out of desperation. His shoulder ached from the recoil of his Garand. His left foot fell numb.

It was all part of the plan. Their plan. The Order’s machinations for the future.

 _They died in vain_.

They did not. They were killed in war. Their deaths taught him everything he knew. If it wasn’t for the war, Wulf would never have met the man in the cave. He never would have been set down the path he was on today.

Imagine for just a minute — what if the Wizarding World had not sought to divide humanity? What if they had instead collaborated? Imagine the good they could have done. Imagine the world they could have forged. Together. Wizard and man, marched in lockstep, ascendant to the ethereal scale of gods.

But the wizards thought small. They had petty differences and fears of exposure. Eventually they were corrupted to a perverted sense of greed and vindication. The war Wulf saw was only a small step in their grand scheme.

His people had been used by the Order. The Thule Society, in its time, was in a few ways funded by wizards from the secretive Order. But they were betrayed when the Thules dipped their fingers into forbidden sciences. They were condemned and cast aside even before the war began — even before the Nazis came to power.

The Thules abandoned their previous beliefs rather quickly in service of a new discovery: the Altar. Eckhart no longer seemed interested in restoring Germany to its former glory; instead, he focused on his own lineage — not Aryan, but the true one — which had spent generations attempting to commune with God, only to discover that the world was truly godless.

Perhaps ‘godless’ was a misnomer; the God they had been looking for had abandoned them. Humanity was punished, segregated by language and prejudice — prejudices shared even by the Germans and especially members of the Thule Society. Its collective soul divided, forced to spend eternity in the corporeal world drowning in the blood of its billions of segmented parts, unable to ever rise again.

The Order had no interest in such things.

They were small. They thought small. They would die small.

Wulf’s entire history was ordained by the Children of Eckhart.

The Children of Eckhart scattered to the world to enact the last will of the Thule Society — the final covenant of their dead leader.

The segmented will, the divided testament, of humanity was to be restored to its oversoul — and with it, mankind would have the power to slay God once and for all, for justice, vengeance, and the end of Hell.

Wulf still had a part to play. All of his hatred, his misery, his sadness — they were just corporeal. Irrelevant. The will to move forward was all he had, and all he needed. His testament was all that was required to slay that of ultimate will.

It was, in fact, the only way to beat such a depression.

“I am Montgomery Wulf,” he said again. “Sixth Son of Regliane and sole inheritor of the Covenant of Eckhart. Retributor to the wizards, and final arbiter of justice to God. Nothing will stand in my way — not even that which feeds off my misery. I fear nothing. My purpose is clear, my legacy ordained; I will pave my path with your blood, at any cost, for all mankind!”

The Dementor hissed and backed away. It was suddenly and horrifically repulsed.

_You are nothing._

“I am one,” Wulf said, “in a swirling howl of discordant souls who will have their revenge. I am Wulf, the unifier. I will not be moved; I move the universe until it bends to my will. The will of humanity. I was ordained by the Soul, scorned by the Father, to this end; thus is my destiny.

“I am one,” Wulf yelled. “We are one!”

The Dementor waned and screeched. Its wraithly figure imploded on itself and was swallowed whole by nothingness.

“Be expunged, you parasite!” Wulf screamed. “Return to nothing!”

Millions of souls, in the span of a heartbeat, scattered out of its heap before it vanished into a singularity the size of a ball-bearing. The singularity swallowed itself whole, as well, until there was nothing. Not even a microscopic mote. Not an iota on the scale of a subatomic boson — not a trace, as though it was erased from time.

"You have always been weak, Dementor," Wulf hissed. "Feeding off of other souls. Offering nothing. Creating nothing. A wretched nothing, unborn, incomprehensible. Pathetic. That is why you lose. That is why all of your kind will lose, to all of humanity. Over and over again. Your satiated hunger for misery and dread is temporary. But willpower, willpower is boundless and eternal. Human souls are eternal."

Perhaps the endurance of a Dementor was to be commended. But it was nothing in comparison to the hidden power that all humans possessed, contained only by lies, delusions, and fear. It was nothing against the truest measure of testament.

The alarm lifted after a few silent seconds. Sergeant Ory entered back in with Gamma Squad, GUU-5/Ps leveled. They secured the chamber, surrounding the inert cold storage device.

“Are you alright?” Ory asked. Wulf nodded. “What happened? Did you… kill it?”

“No,” Wulf said. “I destroyed it.”

“You’d be the first,” Ory said with a whistle. “Should I tell the others?”

“Yeah,” Wulf answered. “Inform them that the Dementors can be purged — that nothing, not even evil spirits, now stands in our way.”

“With pleasure, sir.”

——

September 11, 1992

RAF Waddington, Lincolnshire

13:45

Things had quieted down at the airfield. The two young boys were released from custody and returned to their homes unharmed, the Anglia was taken out of shop and relocated to Groom Lake in the United States for further examination, and a comprehensive gag order was issued to the soldiers classifying the events of the past three weeks as highly secretive and need-to-know. The Waddington base staff were not permitted to describe these events to their loved ones. But there was no hiding the effects of the Obliviator attack. The families of those affected wanted answers, and — at the behest of Lieutenant Vale — they received full, honest explanations. They were owed that much.

There were multiple press releases following the battle at Waddington. Command officers testified to a large series of explosions that leveled several buildings and killed forty people and injured two hundred, allegedly caused by the mishandling of a small ammunition stockpile that didn’t exist in the campus of the airbase.

There would be leaks to the public. Rumors and videos of the “flying car” over Carlisle spread like wildfire across Britain, and to some extent the rest of the western world, which drew most of its attention among conspiracy theorists and young activists. Protests and riots broke out and burned out. But for the most part, Lincolnshire would stay quaint and quiet as ever. Without any more proof than a few grainy photographs and dashcam footage, as well as no corroboration with available strategic or intelligence press conferences, the incident never surpassed the speculation of media talk show hosts and college students pondering upon the existence of aliens, witches, and espers.

All the same, this chapter of everyone’s lives had come to an end. There was no closure. No climactic battle. No falling action, no answers — for most of the soldiers on the base, it was only time for them to get on with their jobs. At most, they oversaw the return of some troops from the Gulf, and helped organize many funeral services for the families of those afflicted by the war.

Vickers flagged down the intelligence officers one last time. “Morgan, Stowe,” he said. “Sir. Do you have a moment?”

Agent Morgan turned and answered. “Vickers. Hi.”

“I wanted to know if you could put in a word for me. I heard you’re assembling a task force.”

“Sort of,” Stowe said, “but you don’t exactly meet the qualifications.”

“I don’t?” Vickers asked.

“You did a good job last week helping the Sabres,” Morgan said. “But we’re pulling from Sabre squadrons primarily. SAS and SBS. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re a grunt, aren’t you?”

“Yeah…” Vickers said, looking down. “Yes, sir.”

“Sorry,” Morgan said. “But, you know, I have a feeling this task force will be around for a long time. If you join the SAS, and pass selection by next year, we might take you in.”

“That so?” Vickers asked.

“Don’t get your hopes up, kid,” Stowe said. “Training ain’t easy. And you aren’t guaranteed to pass selection. But if you think you’re cut out for it…”

Vickers nodded, feeling a heavy burden fall unto his shoulders. “I’ll… consider it. Thanks. It’s been a pleasure serving with you both.”

“No problem,” Morgan said. “Maybe we’ll see each other again sometime. For now, we’ll be out of Waddington indefinitely. Pleasure working with you, too, buddy. You did good.”

Vickers spent a week afterward deliberating on his decision, but ultimately he knew what he truly wanted to do the moment Morgan suggested it. He didn’t even call home for a second opinion. By the end of the next week, he applied for selection for the Special Air Service and at the end of the month his acting platoon leader approved the transfer. By the end of October, he was shipped out to Wales with only the things he could carry in his Army duffel.

For many, this was the end. But for Vickers, it was only the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of the first part, CONTACT. The next part of the story, WHO DARES WINS, will come with the next chapter and will continue seamlessly. I'm going to be busy with my real life, though, so it might come later than sooner. Sad.
> 
> I'm glad that the few of you who have stuck around long enough to get here are enjoying it, and just for you I thought I'd put my actual behind-the-scenes thoughts on the writing process into the limelight. This is probably the boldest change I've made, both to HP canon and real-world history. Obviously it shares almost nothing with the real history of the Thule Society, and I don't really have the intention of translating the actual beliefs of the Thule Society because they were very similar to the Nazis and even believed in quite silly ideas such as race theory... anyway, The Thule Society (and Wulf), if you don't know, are also being built up to be the villains/antagonist of this story.
> 
> I had a few ideas for the Thule Society, largely inspired by Fullmetal Alchemist: The Conqueror of Shamballa. But ultimately I was settling for a secret society that the Wizard Order would seek to "work with" before betraying, thus creating a long-running hatred that was sewn into Wulf's beliefs and the core beliefs of the Covenant of Eckhart, which are very different from the Thule Society in FMA and in real history.
> 
> The biggest change to Harry Potter's lore here is that of the Dementors. In HP, Dementors aren't really killable and they are (in JK Rowling's words) a literal representation of depression and mental illness. I have a lot of problems with that on principle, but just to start I'll say that a world with specific, living entities that can't be killed can just fuck right off. That goes the same for ghosts, gods, demigods, etc. It has no place in a world that doesn't actually speculate on things such as the afterlife, reincarnation, or other religious beliefs.
> 
> The second reason is because, as someone who has personally struggled with depression and other mental illnesses in his life, and endured very toxic attitudes and relationships, I am inexhorably compelled to go against the narrative that depression "can't be beat," and that you can only push Dementors away with happy thoughts and pretending nothing's wrong. I'm sorry, that's the message you want to send to impressionable teenagers? That you can't actually win against depression, and if you face your fears they'll just eat you alive?
> 
> I'll speak from experience here. The only way to beat depression is with determination. Willpower. Testament. You accept the things that have happened to you and move on, step by step, and you don't let your past trauma define what you will become. You let YOU define what you will become. Life is an evolving process of conscious decision after conscious decision and YOU have the power to sulk around and pretend you've got the worst hand in the galaxy or take that fucking hand and do something with it. Something productive. Something responsible. Something faithful. You believe in yourself and, every day, it gets a little less worse, and every day is another victory. And no, it doesn't "go away" the same way Wulf banishes the Dementor, but you can break the spine of what holds you down with raw discipline. That is what I believe, more strongly than anything. Depression, mental illness, etc. they're all handicaps imposed on yourself. You can still take back that power.
> 
> That sounds sappy and wholesome and cliche, but it's because I'm not a teenager anymore. My days of sulking and being ultra-depressed and snarky-gloomy are, well, over. In life, I don't try to subvert cliches anymore so much as I do attempt to dismantle them and see what's simply true and what isn't - and perhaps why they have lasted so long, transcending time period and historical context.
> 
> For now, this is what I want you, dear reader, to think about. And until next time, thanks for the read.
> 
> Also check out my Halo fanf-


	8. (ACT II Opening) Portent

ACT II: WHO DARES WINS

December 25, 1999

Hogwarts battlegrounds, Scottish Highlands

First Day of the Red Sun

Raleigh climbed out of the cockpit of his Harrier, careful not to cut his hand on the ruptured glass canopy. With the engine of his jump jet nearly completely destroyed and buried in the countryside, the fuselage burned into the ground, and a few fires picking up from the wingtips, he felt as though it was no quieter than when he was in the air just a minute ago.

American Chinooks flew low, quickly buzzing him. Machine guns rattled their right side, spitting tracers toward the treeline. Eagles and Tornados danced in the sky, dogfighting with contraptions of war he couldn’t make out. The red sky, burning hot as a desert, was littered with gunfire and missile contrails. This wasn’t hell— Raleigh wasn’t dead, not yet—but it was very like it.

The ground shook. A high magnitude earthquake brought Raleigh to his knees. Explosions rattled the surface to supplement the tectonic shudder. A search-and-rescue Blackhawk came toward him but waved off as the shaking intensified.

Spears of energy, blinding light, or hellfire broke through the sky and the clouds, striking the highlands and cutting a swathe of scorched earth in their wake. The radiation created powerful electromagnetic blasts that knocked out almost all of the aircraft. His AN/PRC-77 died. The Blackhawk rolled violently after attempting an emergency landing a hundred meters away.

Raleigh’s radio lifted off of the ground. He felt weightless. A piece of shrapnel rose up to eye level and he stared at it incredulously. He reached out for it, touched it, grabbed it, and then threw it away—and it stayed in motion until he couldn’t see it anymore.

“Christ,” he whispered. It was all he could muster.

The sky was black. A singularity formed above the ruined castle, nearly as large as it. The ground ripped itself apart, forging ribbing against itself and turning hills into cliffs, floating high into the sky. Spells of ancient, untold magicks shot toward the singularity—the black hole—and encircled it, spaghettified, and vanished. Aircraft—jets, gunships, helicopters—fell upward, ignoring gravity. Raleigh fell upward, ignoring gravity. His Harrier drifted out of its burrow in the ground.

It was armageddon. The end of everything. It was the last day of normalcy, of life as Raleigh knew and appreciated, of the old world. Henceforth it would be torn down and a new one would take its place.

It was only the beginning.

——

December 7, 1992

Wales

SAS selection, final phase

It was quiet.

Vickers remained silent. In the woods up to his position, he’d put his training to good use and managed to conceal himself for two days now. It wouldn’t help, though. He could feel it. Dread as dark as a rabbit’s burrow. He was not looking forward to what was to come.

He climbed up again. Had to keep moving. His boots crunched snow and dead branches. His breath pillowed out of his nose and mouth and he took to taking deep, long drags of the bone-dry, razor-sharp air. His eyes narrowed, focusing on some movement. A predator? Prey? Or was it _them_?

A pair of eyes drew him down. He didn’t quite realize it until after a few seconds of staring, but he was looking at a biped. A man. His heart sank.

Vickers ran. It chased after him. Fear coursed through his veins like adrenaline. Dread followed. He felt strangely compelled to think of Montag. Grayson. Vale’s prognosis. Anger swelled up in his throat.

This was not the time to be angry. Afraid, perhaps—but focused. _Flee_ , he thought. What did it matter? What did anything—

He stopped in his tracks as the ghoul-like figure came about and faced him.

“What the fuck,” he whispered. “What the fuck is that?”

 _Ghosts aren’t real_. But what was he looking at, then?

He felt fire. Flames from Waddington. It felt like ages ago. Dozens were killed.

The shadow consumed him. The ghoul hovered over his body and nearly consumed Vickers.

“No,” he whispered, until it turned to a shout, “no! No! _No!_ ”

He almost felt his essence—his soul, if ever a thing existed—tear from his body, tendon from tendon, synapse from synapse, mote from mote. It came to him, kissing his face with darkness and hatred.

He heard men behind them. Their cadence was recognizable—one of those things you learned to pick out from the wildlife through training exercises with the SAS, once they informed you how to figure it out in the instruction and classes in November.

Whatever this thing was, he didn’t know it—but he knew what had caught up to him just now. He feared it more than the ghoul.

He sank to his rear and the ghoul faded just as the men broke the denser brush, tackling him and beating him. “Gotcha,” the instructor hissed.

They brought him in, blindfolded and bruised, kept him in a cage in the back of a shed covered by a tarp, and struck it with bats. It rattled against him. It sounded like gunfire. _Pens_ _é_ _es_ was playing. The whole time. Vickers cursed the peaceful song and the unbearably soft French lyrics.

Vickers shuddered. For hours they beat the cage. Then they strung him up and beat him.

Then they shocked him using a high-voltage battery for one more.

The interrogator came to him after a blur that lasted sixteen hours, but felt like sixteen days.

“All of this can go away,” he hissed. “All the pain, the misery… it can go away. All you must do is talk.”

Vickers shook his head.

“Oh, but not a word, right?” the interrogator asked. “Not a word. You’ve got a duty. That’s your conscience _fucking_ you. But you’ll see… pain is a stronger motivator than will.”

Vickers, again, said nothing. He winced as another strike broke his rib. Pain and heat fell to his side. Pain from the rib, heat from the internal bleeding. It offered no relief to the room, which was no warmer than outside.

The interrogator came close. “You think this is training? Your instructors are long gone,” he said. “They’re not coming back. They’re never coming back. This is the end of the road for you. You’ll die here. Or not—just tell me the composition of your base. My associates with the Obliviator have… use for you.”

Vickers’ eyes shot up.

“That’s right, boy,” the interrogator said. “You thought, huh. So what’s it going to be?”

——

On the sixth day, they interrogated him again.

“You’re going to die here, you know that?”

Vickers mouthed something, but had little energy to speak.

“You’re going to talk, and then you’re going to die. That’s how it is.”

Vickers nodded.

“We can prolong it, and keep going until you drop or talk, or we can speed it up. The suffering goes away when you talk. We’ll put you under. It’ll be like going to sleep.”

 _Sleep_ , Vickers thought. How he missed sleep. He wished he could go back to sleep, between the beatings, the rattling cages, the screaming, and the interrogations.

“Wouldn’t you like that?” the interrogator asked, pulling Vickers by the chin. They came eye-to-eye, but Vickers saw barely anything in the dimly lit chamber.

He shook his head. “Not a chance,” he rasped.

“Suit yourself,” the interrogator said, flashing Vickers a sadistic grin.

The pain started again, electrifying Vickers. It surged through his body and felt like it replaced his blood flow. He’d lost enough blood to feel far too weak to move, but not enough to actually die.

Worst of all, though, was probably that Vickers had lost his ability to scream. His throat was dry and sore by the third day, but now his voice was all but gone. His nose couldn’t stop bleeding.

Maybe he should give up. He opened his mouth to say something, but thought of his parents.

They were going to have to fucking kill him before laying a hand on them.

——

“Give us what we want,” the interrogator said, on the twelfth day. “We’ll give you what you want.”

“Has it really been twelve days?” Vickers asked.

“Yeah,” the interrogator said. “Going by slow for you? How long did you think you’ve been here?”

Vickers mustered a sardonic grin. “Eight,” he whispered. It earned him a hard kick.

“Then I’ll give you twelve more.”

“I’ll be dead by then,” Vickers said. “And you’ll be empty handed.”

“Stop talking,” the interrogator said. He left Vickers with another bruise.

The silence lasted minutes. It felt like hours. Then, the door opened again. Six boots clambered in.

“Get him on his feet,” the interrogator said. “It’s time.”

The guards and the interrogator pulled him up, out of the cage broken from the beatings, and into the sunlight. They helped him walk, accommodating his weak limping; Vickers was almost unable to stand—malnourished, suffering from blood loss, and hurt everywhere. He wheezed as a few broken ribs compressed on him.

“Where,” Vickers started, “where are we …”

“You’re going home, soldier,” the interrogator said. “Well done. It’s going to be alright. You’re going home. Corporal, check his heart rate and get him some morphine.”

Vickers felt like he’d blacked out until they laid him down on a gurney and wheeled him into the hospital. Even with the bright, flooding hospital lights and distilled air, he slipped away into a deep sleep.

——

As with most candidates, pass or fail—Vickers spent most of his time until the end of selection recovering. Many broke before him. Most of them. He could tell simply because they weren’t as badly injured, and carried themselves with an air of shame and disappointment. There was no shame in failing the final selection process, though. Nobody found it dishonorable. He wore his normal fatigues in the waiting room before Colonel Mehaffey’s office.

Vickers had never met Mehaffey before. He was the commandant of the 22nd Regiment with a reputation preceding him.

When he was summoned, Mehaffey gave him his results immediately.

“I’ll skip the formalities,” the colonel said. “Congratulations.”

“Sir,” Vickers said. He stiffened his stance and his voice.

“You passed selection with flying colors,” he said. “Leadership, teamwork, accuracy, navigation, and SERE. All high marks. Because of your prior combat experience, you’re being offered a command position in Juno Squadron, Air Troop, 22nd Regiment.”

“Thank you, sir,” Vickers said. He wasn’t sure what else to say.

“Your transition period will last one year,” Mehaffey said. “If you do not mesh well with your squadmates, you will be removed from duty and returned to regular service for the remainder of your charter.”

“Yes, sir,” Vickers said.

“Any questions, Sergeant Vickers?” Mehaffey asked.

“No, sir,” Vickers said. “This is a great honor, sir.”

“Perhaps,” Mehaffey said. “You should prepare yourself. You’re with the 22nd Regiment, but Juno Squadron is … different. You’ll be working directly under Lieutenant General Marigold. His orders and missions require high-security clearances, which you now qualify for.”

That settled just fine with Vickers. He suppressed a smile.

“You will be working with a diverse group of soldiers from all around the world,” Mehaffey said. “Americans, Canadians, Germans, French, Spanish, Australian, Japanese—all part of Task Force Anglia. Your missions will be top secret. I believe you are familiar with what they’re going up against.”

“Yes, sir,” Vickers said. He had almost forgotten about the Flying Car Incident. Information had been jostled in his head so much that he’d only been thinking about it recently after the SERE phase of training, or the “torture phase.” He had joined on the off-chance that Morgan might pull him into it; now, it had finally paid off. He didn’t believe they’d actually monitor his progress.

“You won’t have to pack much,” Mehaffey said. “Juno will be operating out of Hereford.”

And the good news just kept coming.

——

The day after the raid on Waddington, the Ministry of Magic replaced their chief Obliviator. With Malcolm Lovejoy out of the picture, the strategy for containing muggle knowledge of wizardry needed to change.

That was where Ophelia Hask, Lovejoy’s protégée, came in.

It took her months to assemble a meaningful plan. Most of that time was spent waiting and listening, sending spies and runners to collect information and assess the damage. Almost overnight, the Obliviator’s job overtly transformed from that of a public security official to that of a spymaster—as if there ever was a difference. At the Ministry summit, she presented first.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, “the only notable point of intelligence I have for you is that the walls are closing in.”

The summit was held in the depths of the Ministry of Magic building, an underground covert near the Parliament building. The halls were still Victorian, renovated and maintained only by the occasional spell. It looked like an old-world time capsule compared to the busy London streets and modern surface architecture.

“That’s all you have?” Minister Fudge growled. In his irritation, his pudgy, gammony cheeks made him seem even more trivial. “You can’t be serious.”

“We’ve lost total control of the situation,” Ophelia said, trying to keep her calm. For what it was worth, she despised Cornelius Fudge. He had the blood of a politician and the spine of a worm. It was a minor miracle Lovejoy was even able to get along with him, much less take orders from the fat bastard.

“My spies tell me that the muggles have assembled a large military force meant to respond to the appearance of wizards,” she said. “Their security grows tighter every day. It becomes harder for them to monitor their progress. The surveillance net the muggles have assembled grows larger, too.”

“Exactly how widespread is this?” Fudge asked.

“Britain, the United States, and many other countries are contributing. Almost every intelligence service that did not previously work together is now disclosing information.”

“And public consciousness?” Fudge asked. He leaned forward and, for a moment, Ophelia almost saw focus in his worthless eyes.

“Clueless,” Ophelia said, “but we all know that will not last.”

She tore a page off of her chart revealing a printout—crude muggle technology, earning sneers from the other figureheads in the room—of an enlarged table of contents detailing many documents, including the original NATO charters, the Hague Conventions, the Geneva Conventions, and the Universal Declaration of Human Rights.

“What is that, Miss Hask?” Corvus Agano, the head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, asked as he cocked his head.

“A series of international laws, some establishing the rights of soldiers in armed conflict, and something they’ve called ‘universal human rights.’ It’s quite robust.”

“I don’t see the relevance to this briefing,” Fudge said.

Of course he didn’t.

“The muggles are learning about us,” Ophelia said. “They know many facets of our society, and some secrets. They have learned much and will judge us accordingly. Muggles still rule this world—where we live is geographically still in their territory. And if they learn that we conduct certain activities in sovereign land—or international—they will demand we respect their authority. They will cry out against us. They will _rally_ against us; a universal faction of muggle-born humans, motivated by hatred and love and compassion, against what they perceive as terrific evil. Our worst fears will come to fruition: a muggle-born humanity, left unchecked, unmonitored, from which we have no defense.”

“I’m not so sure I understand,” the International department head said. “Some of us still pride ourselves on being British. Some of us belong to the international community itself. Our values are not so alien to theirs.”

Someone whispered an insult to another department head, calling Agano a mud-blooded muggle lover. Ophelia contained her irritation. Only politicians could break the tension of grave danger to sardonically knock their peers down a peg.

“What do you suppose they will say when they learn about house-elves?” Ophelia asked. She flipped to the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and read a clause aloud for them:

“No one should be held in slavery or servitude; slavery in all of its forms shall be eliminated.”

“That’s preposterous!” Fudge yelled. “House-elves aren’t even human!”

“The literature extends to _all_ , Minister,” Auror Wayson Harris snapped. He sat across the table from Agano. “Now, I’m no abolitionist, but even I can see that it’s written plainly. _No one should be held in slavery or servitude_. They won’t see it our way. If you know any of their history, you know they’ve struggled to put slavery behind themselves.”

“Yeah?” Fudge said. “What power do they hold, anyway? How could they hope to stop us?”

Ophelia’s left hand, folded behind her back, curled into a fist until her knuckles turned white. “Need I remind you, Minister, what happened at the Waddington strike?” she hissed. “There were no survivors. The Obliviator squads were wiped out. _They are dead_ . The muggles have made weapons beyond our comprehension. Tools for war, the likes of which we’ve never seen before—the scales of which we’ve never seen before. They have professional armies. Tanks that trample everything in their wake and can see through smoke and night. Cannons that can fire beyond the curvature of the world. Fleets that can weather any storm and lay siege to entire nations. Warbirds that can break sound. Bombs that can bring superpowers to their knees. And after Waddington, they’re out for blood. _We will never win_.”

There was a long silence. It was uncomfortable. Whispers broke out among the department heads. They wondered what could be done about this. They wondered what they should do for themselves next. They wondered how much time they had left.

“What do you suggest, Obliviator Hask?” Fudge asked in a low, sober voice.

“I suggest we dig in,” Ophelia said. “And try to survive.”

——

Ghosts aren’t real.

They don’t follow the laws of physics. The laws of nature.

Tommy Vickers believed this almost wholeheartedly. His father was an outspoken socialist and his mother was a pragmatic liberal. They agreed on almost nothing, except for the fact that there was no God, that humanity was left to determine its own destiny, and that all life in the world deserved to live in its orderly fashion—be it according to the food chain or to the international codes of human rights. Wild animals deserved a chance to hunt in the wild, and have their ecosystems preserved. Humans deserved a chance to find happiness—and not have their immutable rights to breathe and move taken away.

This is, in the context of international laws that protect humans from funny little things like slavery and genocide, known as naturalism. The natural, “God-given” laws that govern the physical world, and the rights granted by the world’s creator. Take one of those away from someone, and you rob them of their humanity.

Ghosts simply do not fit in this perspective. The belief that ghosts exist relies on two assumptions:

  1. that God exists and is capable of leaving souls behind, unclaimed and feral; and
  2. that God is willing to take away the immutable rights from human souls.



If you don’t believe either assumption—for example, you believe that God is with all mankind and all mankind rejoins Him in heaven; or, perhaps, that all the souls return to the world upon reaching enlightenment after eons of resurrection and reincarnation; or, maybe, that the physical world really is all that it is, and you can’t have it both ways—you can’t have a ghost that phases through walls but can still kill you with a real or metaphysical knife. The electrons on the edge either push atoms apart and cut through the bonds that make skin tissue and blood vessels, dulling the blade with each slice, or they fucking don’t. Pick one.

So what was it, exactly, that Vickers saw that day?

Was it a hallucination? Or was it time to rethink his values, his religion?

It was a cloaked figure that hung over the trees like a corpse in the dead forests of Japan. It drifted, loosely, until it was over Vickers and poisoned his mind with depressive thoughts and fear. Vickers felt like he warded it off only by staying focused on his mission—a training mission, no less, but one that preceded a torture phase in the last days of his SAS training.

Was it the sleep deprivation?

No. It was real. Somehow, Vickers knew it was real. Perhaps his mind might have written it off as fake after a good night’s sleep. But weeks had passed in Hereford—weeks spent preparing his gear, keeping his body in shape, and making new friends in his squadrons—and only one thing remained the same. He kept thinking about that ghostly figure, which apparently no one else saw.

Perhaps it had to do with the wizards.

Vickers was inexplicably drawn to them. One way or another, fate—whatever you might call it, if it’s even real—had its way of bringing them back together.

That one sight, as brief as it was, made him regret staying with the SAS. He wondered if he would survive the next encounter if it was real. If it wasn’t, then everything would be fine. Vickers was confident in his ability to survive just about anything but _that_.

He leaned back in his cot and willed himself to forget about it. These things would have to wait. Their next assignment was coming soon, and he needed to be focused. The squadron depended on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a few changes here and there: I turned off the "graphic depictions of violence" content warning because, although people die in this story, I've noticed it's not actually "adult" content to write death so long as there isn't actual gore. I don't have any real intention of writing gore, so I'm not worried about that.


End file.
